


Icarus Is Go

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Army Doctor John, BAMF John Watson, Bathtub wanking, Detoxing, Eventual Happy Ending, I mean, I should say eventual happy ending for John/Sherlock, M/M, MI6 Agents, Mycroft is fucked up, Not evil, Sherlock is MI6, Spy!AU, Suicidal Ideation, except this is all pretty cannon and we know it, john convincing himself he's not falling for a junkie, just fucked up, sad wanking, tw:drug use, wanking, we know this shit is real, who are we trying to fool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes a job in MI6 after feeling like his life isn't going anywhere. His disillusionment over government work and the death of the eldest Holmes brother (not Mycroft) send him spiraling towards disaster. </p><p>Mycroft sees this all happening and devises a plan to get Sherlock to an army base to get clean. He even has a specific doctor in mind. It should all go smoothly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Begins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [Tardisqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardisqueen/gifts), [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts), [MyriadProBold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadProBold/gifts), [JunkenMetel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunkenMetel/gifts), [Doctor_Tinycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Tinycat/gifts), [JuJuBee (Marcy09)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/gifts), [mafm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/gifts), [vixis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixis/gifts), [Fandoms_Unite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandoms_Unite/gifts), [Darth_Nonie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Nonie/gifts), [PenelopeWaits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeWaits/gifts).



Mycroft had been watching the Army doctor work for the past month. He sighed and took a sip of his coffee, calling his assistant into the room and switching to the second camera he'd stored on base to watch the man.

"How is he?" He asked the smartly dressed woman.

"Not well. The latest mission was a disaster," she replied calmly, speaking of Mycroft's younger brother, the man they had all thought would be their best asset.

"Percentage?" Mycroft asked, leaning back in his seat and watching the doctor scrub up for another surgery. It was his third in a row and his strict determination was indicative of his nature, something that Mycroft was hesitant to admit he admired. 

"80% chance he'll OD in the next week. We can't wait any longer, sir," the assistant responded, fingers tapping away at her mobile.

Mycroft sighed and, in a break of character he would only allow in front of the one person he trusted, laid his head in his arms on the desk. "Send the information. Get him there by plane tonight."

The assistant punched a number in her mobile and listened to it ring. When it was picked up she turned and walked out of the room, murmuring a quick 'Icarus is go,' into the receiver.

Mycroft straightened up and took a sip of his tea. Sherlock. Bloody fool.

_____

Sherlock was high when he got the message, fingers twitching on his thigh as he waited for a train in Krasnoyarsk. He pulled his burner-mobile from his pocket, dislodging a small packet of cocaine. He scrambled for the cocaine and looked around to see if anyone had noticed. The local police, walking the station with German Shepherds at their sides, didn't seem to so he pocketed it and finally looked to see who was sending him his next mission.

Now, let's get this out of the way, he knew he'd bungled the last mission. He knew he was slipping. He saw his imminent end as though looking over the edge of a tall building, the ground pulling him closer and his brain pressing him to jump. This didn't stop him from going down the track he was on, however, and only made him more determined to keep on it. If he just did a bit more coke and refused to eat and sleep he could focus enough to get his shit back together.

In truth, he hated it all. It had started as a chance to get himself out of debt and had turned into the worst decision he'd ever made. Yes, even worse than the one he made late one night in a Moscow alley, bent over and being fucked from behind, taking the first hit of his life. He'd thought he would get to go after horrible men and put an end to them but what was portrayed by Mycroft's people as black and white was much more nebulous and he soon found himself seeking out any type of distraction to ignore how gray his morality had become. 

He wasn't good anymore. He wasn't bad either, and somewhat necessary, but he had grown to hate himself. He should have got out when his eldest brother had died. He knew Mycroft had something to do with it, and most of the blame was on him, but there was still guilt there, guilt that he could have stopped it. Guilt that he had been in the way.

Before joining MI6 he had hated his life, he had hated his body, he had hated his dismal future, but he hadn't truly hated himself. He thought he was smart enough to stay on the right side of things and while everything was falling apart and he was uncovering the innocence of some of the people he'd been hired to kill all he could hear was Mycroft's voice in his head. 'Don't try to be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one.'

He drowned it in promiscuity and then drugs but it always bubbled below the surface. Don't try to be smart. Don't try to be smart.

He shook it off and unlocked the mobile.

'Dear brother,' it said in seamless Pashto. 'Uncle has died. You are to come home immediately as we will soon go over the will. Your plane leaves from Yemelyanovo at ten tonight.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and searched the airport's website for flights going to either Afghanistan, Pakistan or Iran. One flight went to Dushanbe first, then four and a half hours later there was a connecting flight leaving for Dubai. The next connecting flight was five hours later and ended in Kandahar. He was going to Afghanistan. It was going to be a long day.

_____

John was exhausted but this was what he trained for. Training, of course, only went so far but luckily for him he still had a bit of adrenaline working its way through his system. It was enough to keep him going. A lesser man would have handed the patient over to his second in command but John Watson was anything but a lesser man. He ran the scrub brushed under his finger nails with brutal, biting force and then rinsed and dried as his nurse came to suit him up.

"Gunshot to the abdomen and loss of left foot. You take the abdomen and Miller will take the foot. He's lost quite a bit of blood so we have a transfusion started," the nurse said.

John looked over to where Miller was scrubbing up and gave the woman a tight nod. She'd be fine on the leg. 

He got to the table and started in on the abdomen, finding the bullet had thankfully lodged close to the surface, possibly a ricochet, and was in one piece. This would be relatively easy.

_____

"He's on the plane, sir," Mycroft's assistant said that night as he was readying for bed.

"Good," Mycroft replied with a sigh, "you're dismissed."

She took her leave and he listened for the guard to shut the front door behind her before slipping out of his tailored suit and into a pair of pyjamas. It would be over soon and if he was lucky he would be able to get Sherlock to the doctor before his next blackout, and all from the comfort of his desk. He wasn't one for fieldwork anymore, let alone fieldwork in Afghanistan. The sand didn't agree with him, awful stuff.

He reached over to turn out the light and thought sadly of how this had all gone wrong for his brother. After the other one had turned and was put down he thought his family couldn't take any more tragedy. 'One brother left,' he thought. 'Mustn't do this wrong.'


	2. Pharmaceuticals And Opioids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see a little into the background of what happened with the boys and the 'other one' and Sherlock arrives in Kandahar.

Mycroft woke with a start in the dark room, hands roaming his chest as they had that night, looking desperately for bullet holes. For a moment he could even smell the gunpowder and taste the last cigarette he'd had. He got up and walked to the loo with the lights off, clumsily getting his toothbrush out and scrubbing away what he knew was really just a memory.

He knew why he'd had the dream. It had been his go-to stress dream since it had happened and with all that was going on with Sherlock's he wasn't sure how he hadn't seen it coming. 

He opened the cabinet above the sink and took out a bottle of Trazodone, rolling it between his hands as he glanced back into the bedroom to see what time it was. 

Two o'clock. 

He could get four more hours sleep now but he'd end up feeling groggy when he woke. He let his eyes fall closed for a second and felt blood on his hands and dropped the bottle in favor of his old friend Xanax. He unscrewed the top and dry-swallowed a pill before putting it and the other bottle away and sinking to the floor. 

His mind whispered and he tried not to listen. Roger.

_____

Roger was handsome. Tall and slim and dashing. He was handsome in a way that seemed to suck all the attention in the room. Cameras always seemed to want him in their gaze. Women too. 

But, then again, even before women started to notice Roger in that way he was enchanting. He was a gorgeous baby, cherub-cheeked and always smiling, thatch of dark curls in place from birth. He was just enjoyable to look at. Aesthetically pleasing.

Mycroft was not. Mycroft was elbows and knees and a round stomach and spots and ginger body hair when it finally deemed itself ready to come in. He had a funny nose and a slightly off putting smile and he wondered sometimes if they'd been from different fathers.

You would have thought, then, that being Roger's younger brother, Mycroft would have hated him. He didn't. He absolutely adored Roger, thought the stars were hung on his word alone.

When Roger was twenty their baby brother was born and Mycroft tried so terribly hard to be the mentor and inspiration Roger had been to him. It turned out to be easier than he thought. Sherlock was another Roger, it seemed. 

Sherlock was a surprise, Mummy hadn't planned on another child, let alone a third child at thirty-seven. But as Mycroft saw, Sherlock was touted as a miracle. He was just as happy and wonderful a child as Roger had been and it was rather nice after dealing with the temperamental and overall medically fickle child that Mycroft was.

So Sherlock became the new Roger and got all the attention but Mycroft didn't mind at all because Roger was off to school and he'd had no one to play with and Sherlock's eyes always seemed to track him.

"I'll take care of you," Mycroft whispered the day Sherlock was brought home, "no matter what."

That simple statement had, of bloody course, nearly been fatal on more that a few occasions during their childhood but what Mycroft didn't know was that an eerily similar statement had been uttered to him ten years prior. 

Big brothers protect little brothers. That's what they do.

_____

TWO YEARS PRIOR

"I've got it all under control," Roger said, voice steel and eyes glinting.

"I know what you're doing," Mycroft replied. "I can get out of this on my own."

"No, blud, you can't. I'm sorry, but you have to back off," Roger replied, hand going out to press against Mycroft's chest lightly, and then he was gone.

Mycroft felt he shouldn't have worried after Roger, he was in his mid forties and had been in the field for more than fifteen years at that point. Perhaps there were things that were done in the field that Mycroft simply didn't understand. He was a desk man, after all. His secrets were emailed and shared over tea, not hunted down in Siberian winters and ripped from the throats of strange men in Macau. Maybe Roger knew something he didn't.

_____

Roger knew about Mycroft's affair with the PM's nephew. Roger also knew what needed to be done to keep it a secret. He had told his brother months prior not to get involved but Mycroft had always been rather sentimental, even if he kept it well hidden. 

He got to see Sherlock one last time before it was all said and done, though, so that was good. They'd sat in an outside café in France, near the coast, for a whole afternoon. Sherlock was in the service at that point but was still bright eyed and excited. He was so young. 

They would have looked like twins if not for the twenty year age difference and the fact that Roger's beard grew in auburn. They were sat there, short cropped dark curls atop slender faces and full lips, grinning with identical smiles. Roger looked to where he thought sherlock would get his first set of wrinkles and sighed. Mummy used to call them a matching set. They shared a cigarette and joked about what to get the parents for Christmas and Sherlock asked if Roger's fiancé would come to dinner.

God, oh, God, Roger wanted to tell him. Instead he leaned in and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

"You should bring someone as well. I know you're not seeing anyone right now but perhaps Mycroft could find a bloke at work to set you up with," he said, the silent 'it's all fine' lingering as Sherlock looked aside and a blush formed on his cheeks.

"What if I don't want anyone?" Sherlock asked, ashamed to say what he truly thought. (That no one would ever really want him.)

"That's fine, too," Roger said.

And that had been it. They had gone back to useless joshing and sipping at their coffees and when Roger left Sherlock had no idea it would be the last time he saw his brother alive.

_____

PRESENT

Sherlock got off the plane and was greeted by a younger man in army attire. His frown turned to a sly smile and he wondered if his brother had a hand in picking the boy. He was handsome and smaller than Sherlock but the way he stood spoke of muscles underneath that would bend, if not break him. 'Oh, how I'd like to be broken,' Sherlock thought, looking him over.

The young man would know nothing so Sherlock followed him to a jeep and they made their way towards the edge of town in silence. There was a great deal of stark beauty in mountains of Kandahar but Sherlock wasn't interested in sightseeing. What he needed was a hit.

Now, although Mycroft had sent the young man to pick up Sherlock because Sherlock would know he couldn't be argued with due to his lack of knowledge Mycroft also knew he would probably let Sherlock sneak off at some point. The young soldier was therefore instructed to find a gas station on their way out of the city and to fill up two extra tanks, thus giving Sherlock's enough time to find someone in an alley to sell him something that could be, hopefully within the hour, flushed from his system. Better to have him high than agitated.

The soldier stopped well enough and Sherlock found a dealer with heroin to burn behind the station. He let the man control the heating of the product and took a few hits. It tasted awful and Sherlock was used to shooting up his heroin but in a bind it would do. He knew the man was cheating him but he didn't have the time or care to haggle for a better price. He would have preferred cocaine.

He met his driver at the pump after pretending to return from the loo and they were once again on their way.

The man might not have been cheating him after all, Sherlock thought as they rounded on their third hour of driving and Sherlock found himself nodding off. It was either that or the jet lag. At least he wasn't feeling the pangs of withdrawal. He was sure he'd be able to get his hands on some cocaine wherever he ended up.

"Where exactly are we going?" He asked, asking really only to keep himself awake.

"The base is not far off, sir. You'll take your direction from the commander," the young man replied stiffly.

Sherlock snorted at the thought of letting himself be buggered over the hood of the jeep and closed his eyes. His body felt heavy.


	3. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds his way to the base and Mycroft's plan goes into action. Will John be able to handle sherlock?.....of bloody course he will.

When Sherlock finally made it onto the military base he was properly high. He felt fine. He felt good. He felt fantastic.

"Good to meet you, sir," he said a little too enthusiastically as he met the commander.

The tall man shook his hand and nodded for him to follow.

"I've not received any news on the mission but I was told you would fill me in," Sherlock continued.

"We're going to send you into a newly discovered terrorist cell," the commander lied. "But first you'll need a physical."

"That's unusual," Sherlock said, suddenly nervous and wishing he hadn't taken the bloody hits hours before. "I've had a physical last month. I think we can skip it."

"Regulation," the commander said gruffly. 

"It's really not necessary," Sherlock pressed, fear expanding in his chest and feeling like a child found stealing a candy bar.

"This is Watson," the commander said, opening the door to the medical bay and all but pushing Sherlock in with his eyes.

Sherlock swallowed and walked through the door, looking the compact man up and down before turning. "This is ridiculous," he spit at the commander. 

"I'm afraid you'll have to concede to the physical and search before your mission can start," the commander replied, standing in the doorway and suddenly looking much larger than Sherlock remembered upon meeting him.

"Search?" Sherlock asked angrily. "This is outrageous! I think you should speak to my brother-"

"Your brother set this up, I'm afraid," the commander replied smoothly. "It'll be best if you just go along with it."

Sherlock took a step forward and John did as well, gripping Sherlock's arms behind his back without a thought as the taller man grew suddenly violent.

"Fucking bastards!" Sherlock growled, body jack-knifing. "Let me go!"

The commander took a calm step forward and pulled a syringe from his pocket.

"No, please!" Sherlock begged.

The man pushed it into the meat of his bicep and pressing the plunger. Sherlock struggled in the doctor's grip as everything went gray. He slumped and John pulled him to a seat. Turning, confused, to speak to the commander.

"Was that really necessary, sir?" He asked.

"Those were my orders. He needs to be detoxed," the commander replied, handing the empty syringe over.

"Here? Sir, you're not expecting me to give up Miller. I need her in the bay," John said, thrown for a loop by the whole situation.

"I'm afraid I'll need you on this," the commander said, face serious. "He's one of the best MI6 agents we have and he's a bloody caution. This comes from high up, Watson. Don't question your orders now."

John clenched his jaw and saluted, seriously angry. The commander returned his salute and looked the now fully sedated man over once more.

"He'll try to escape. Do what you need. I'll have a few men in here to guard the bay but you'll probably need to strap him down for the time being. I take it you can handle him now?" The commander said, about to turn to leave.

"Yes, sir," John said, resigned to his surprising fate and wondering what he had ever done wrong to deserve a junkie spy with an attitude.

The commander left and John sighed and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. Bloody hell.

_____

Sherlock woke a few hours later on his side, the restraints around his wrists loose but unyielding. He turned and snarled at the doctor.

"You absolute prick," he said. "I'll have your license for this."

John snorted and looked over at the man. "Really doubt that, mate."

"Mate," Sherlock scoffed. "Maybe I'll have you killed."

"You keep up that attitude and you'll be in shackles this whole time," John said.

Sherlock looked down at them and decided to change tactics. "I saw the way you looked at me when I came in," he purred. "Maybe I can do something to ease the way."

"Getting sucked off by a junkie?" John asked, pulling something up in a needle. "Not interested."

"I'd make it good," Sherlock said, going for sultry as sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Don't doubt it," John said under his breath, "mouth like yours."

"I haven't got a gag reflex," Sherlock pressed.

John rolled his eyes and walked over to put something into the line of the fluid bag he had going. He depressed the plunger and Sherlock glared at him.

"This'll help the side effects. Detox can be horrid," John said, recapping the syringe and pressing a cloth to Sherlock's forehead. "Let me know if you need more sedation."

"Fuck off," Sherlock hissed.

John shrugged and walked to corner of the small room they were in and took a book from his desk, sitting in a plastic chair and opening it to a page near the back and starting to read. Sherlock watched him as he did, spending almost ten minutes sneering at him before speaking.

"Oh, for god's sake," he blurted. "James Bond? Is that supposed to be funny?"

John rested the book on his knee and looked at Sherlock with a small smile. "No, it's supposed to be good. I'm three quarters of the way through, do you really think it's more than coincidence?"

"There's no such thing as coincidence," Sherlock said, looking away.

"So I guess it's fate that landed me here looking after a drugged up spy with a superiority complex," John replied. "The universe never ceases to surprise."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to will his body to sleep.

_____

John took to the cot on the opposite side of the room from Sherlock five hours later, setting his alarm for seven hours and watching Sherlock as he drifted off to sleep. It would be a long night and he would need his wits about him. He wondered if he'd get to know the man over the next week. He wondered if Sherlock would end up hating him. Probably.

Sherlock knew he was being watched but kept his eyes closed, his drug induced slower heart rate and breathing giving the impression of sleep. He wasn't feeling anything but irritation warring with relaxation at that point. The fact that it would all change in a short time frame hit him like a freight train and he suddenly sobbed.

Jesus. He really didn't want to do this. He really, really just wanted to go home. He wanted to go home and never do anything ever again. He wanted to crawl under a rock and just bloody die. 

Everything had gone wrong. Everything was useless and he'd never be happy and it was all just a waiting game before he finally gave up and shot himself in the head. He wasn't any good to anyone anymore and the intense guilt he felt surrounding his actions was sharp and unyielding. He didn't mean for all this to happen. He didn't mean to bugger up the chance Mycroft had given him. If he'd only been better. If he'd only been stronger.

Roger would know what to do, he always did. He'd wanted to be like him and like Mycroft. They were the best things he'd ever known and now Roger was gone and it was all their fault. Mycroft had set things in motion but if he himself hadn't been such a shite agent, hadn't been so green, maybe Roger would have taken him along. Maybe he would have been able to help. If he hadn't been so useless his brother might still be alive. Maybe Mummy wouldn't hate them so.

_____

When his alarm went off John rolled onto his back and stretched, sitting up and glancing over to find Sherlock watching him. He stood and went to feel the man's forehead. It was already cooling and John stuck his hands in his pockets.

"You'll start feeling it soon. If I undo the restraints will you promise not to try to hurt me? There are guards at the door and I'm proficient in close quarters combat, so you wouldn't succeed," he said, "but I'm tired and don't want to worry about that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and he looked away. "Fine. Undo them."

"I have your word?" John asked.

"What good is the word of a junkie?" Sherlock asked absently, itching for the restraints to come off.

"Good enough for me," John said with surprising softness.

"Fine," Sherlock conceded, "you have my word."

John stepped forward and went about removing the drip line and then the restraints. When Sherlock finally rolled onto his side with a groan and then stood John was faced with how much taller the man was. Tall and rather gorgeous.

That was the first time Sherlock vomited on him but it certainly wouldn't be the last.


	4. Adi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John deal with the beginnings symptoms of detox and we go back in time with Mycroft.

At least it hadn't landed in his mouth. The whole of his shirt was ruined and Sherlock looked suddenly horrified as he stepped back and sat on the table, hand over his mouth.

"Well...that was..." John tried.

"I'm-" Sherlock started.

"To be expected, I suppose," John said, realising how ridiculous he'd just been by almost romanticizing a junkie. He looked up and his resolve broke. 

"It's a good look on you," Sherlock said weakly, noting the growing smile on the man's lips.

John burst out giggling, bending over slightly and running a hand through his hair as he took in his shirt. Sherlock chuckled and then bent over with a groan.

"Christ, don't move," John said, starting to unbutton his shirt.

"We've only just met," Sherlock wheezed, trying to smile and failing as stomach cramps took him.

"Yes, and you already offered to suck my dick," John replied quickly, folding the shirt inside out and going to wash his hands.

"Insinuated," Sherlock groaned.

"You told me you have no gag reflex," John shot back, wetting a washcloth for Sherlock's mouth and turning to face him.

It only took a few steps to cross the room. Sherlock averted his eyes and shrugged and John used a finger to raise his chin. He wiped across his lips and then folded the cool washcloth and pressed it against the back of his neck.

"Better?" He asked softly. Sherlock went to nod and John held his jaw. "Still," he commanded.

Sherlock swallowed and looked him in the eyes. "I think I'm going to be sick again," he said in a pained whisper.

John rushed to the sink and grabbed a bucket he'd had set aside for that very reason and brought it back in just enough time for Sherlock to grip the edges and empty himself of what bile he had left, in the end dry heaving as John rubbed circles in his sweat covered back.

After a few moments John pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead and pushed his shoulder back slowly so he sat up. 

"Let's get you out of this shirt," he said, fingers going to the buttons. "And no funny business."

Sherlock let him remove the shirt and sat with his arms around himself as John went to the cabinet for a spare vest. He helped Sherlock into it, noting the wince that said he was already in pain, and stood back to look at him.

"There," he said, concern etched on his brow. "Now we match."

Sherlock breathed deeply, hunched over and sweating. "You're not being very professional for a doctor," he said.

"You're not exactly my usual patient," John replied.

"Would you rather I was torn open and bleeding?" Sherlock asked, picking the bucket up and spitting into it crudely.

"Of course not," John said, sitting down at his desk and cocking his head to the side. "I may flourish in life or death situations but I don't enjoy that they exist."

"You're a good doctor, then?" Sherlock asked, settling on the crinkling paper of the exam table and wrapping his arms around his knees.

John sighed and stood, walking to unlace the man's shoes. "Very good," he replied seriously.

"Then why are you stuck with me?" Sherlock asked, all front and cockiness gone and only self hate showing through.

John slipped both Sherlock's shoes off and pulled the socks off too before tucking them in the corner and going back to his seat. The more he stalled the more pain showed on the younger man's face. No, he thought, he won't hate me after all.

"I thought we agreed it was fate," he said. "I'm going to start you back up on fluids, so best get comfortable."

Sherlock sighed and lay back on the table and John went about his job.

_____

 

There was a click and the scene rewound, the man moving backwards at a fast pace, before it played again. 

"Well...that was..." John tried, brows knit where he stood on the screen.

Mycroft paused it and took a long sip of his bourbon. This was...well, unexpected to say the least. He'd picked the doctor for his proficiency and the fact that he was in a base far away from prying eyes. He honestly didn't even consider whether the man and his brother would get on. Now the two were joking around and there was a growing look on the doctor's face that was more than pity.

"All well, sir?" Mycroft's assistant asked from the door.

Mycroft sighed and rewound the tape again, all the way to the beginning with the doctor lifting his brother's sedated body over his shoulder and dragging him to a small medical bay.

"He could be the making of my brother," Mycroft said curiously, "or make him worse than ever. Update the surveillance immediately."

His assistant nodded and left the room, already typing out a message to their people on the ground.

Mycroft pressed play and watched the doctor move his brother to the bay, the body looking eerily dead.

_____

TWO AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER

Mycroft had been single for at least ten years, the only time he'd been with someone was on the off chance the Diogenes could set it up for him. He couldn't really be blamed for having such a strong reaction to a handsome young man wanting his attention.

They met at a banquet, extravagant and full of people and laughter but really just another day at a desk for Mycroft. He had no interest in befriending any of these people but he had to keep them close nonetheless. 

Two hours in he needed a break from it all, the night before he'd spent awake reviewing recent activity on the Crimean border and he felt his eyelids starting to fall. He grabbed a coffee on his way through the kitchen to the back of the building and leaned against the outside wall with his eyes closed, sipping it.

"Got a light?" Came a man's voice from next to him, the accent thick and German.

He opened his eyes and felt along his pockets until he found his lighter, pulled it out and passed it over. The young man took it and lit a cigarette smoothly without ever looking away. He was handed the lighter back and he took a sip of his coffee. It was unnerving how the young man looked at him.

"I hate these things," the man said.

Mycroft glanced over at him and the man offered him the cigarette. He took it, after a beat, and drew deeply. He coughed a bit and handed it over to the smiling man.

"Used to low-tar?" The man asked. "I'm Adi, by the way."

"Mmm," Mycroft said, internally cursing himself as the young man was obviously laughing at him. 

"So, what's your name, then?" Adi asked.

"Mycroft," he replied, hoping the low light would hide his blush. 

"Mycroft Holmes?" Adi asked with a surprised grin. "My uncle talks about you all the time. I thought you'd be some stuffy old bloke but you're rather..."

"Your uncle?" Mycroft asked, setting his coffee on the ground and holding his hand out for another pull from the cigarette.

"Handsome," Adi said softly.

Mycroft choked again, this time in surprise, and handed the cigarette back over. "I beg your pardon?" He asked.

The younger man bit his lip and looked away before taking a long drag. "I said you're rather handsome. Thought all you big shots were gross old men."

Mycroft felt something light and fizzy in his chest and he thought for a moment he could breath a lot better and then it hit him, the younger man was flirting. Which was...which was impossible. People didn't flirt with Mycroft Holmes. He was the strange one, the one with spots and a belly and a sneer.

"I am a gross old man, in comparison to yourself," he said back, feeling strange talking so opening to someone he didn't know. "You're at most eighteen."

"I'm nineteen," Adi replied quickly. "But I'm old for my age."

Mycroft couldn't help the smile that crossed his face at the comment. Only young people said things like that. He'd said it once, when he'd applied for his first job with the government.

"Nineteen is still very young," Mycroft said, trying to push down the arousal he was feeling.

"And you're what? Twenty-five?" Adi asked, leaning against his shoulder and looking Mycroft up and down slowly while licking his lips.

"I'm in my thirties and I'm sure if this uncle of yours saw you looking at me like that he'd question my intent in this darkened alley," Mycroft replied.

Adi seemed to back down at that and nervously moved away, resting his shoulder blades on the wall and looking up at the sky. "He wouldn't care," he said softly, "not really. I'm just in the way."

Mycroft felt a pang of guilt and picked his coffee back up, resigning himself to the alley until the boy, man, felt better. "I'm sure that's not entirely accurate."

Adi looked up at him through dark eyelashes and smiled sadly. Mycroft found himself putting his hand on Adi's shoulder and his chest tightening. He let it linger more than he should and then cleared his throat and went back to his drink. It had turned cold. Adi's hand pressed to Mycroft's lower back and God, did it feel good. He had to go.

"I'd better get back inside. It was a pleasure to meet you, Adi," Mycroft said gently.

"And you, sir," Adi replied, hand held out tentatively.

Mycroft shook it, surprised by how small and soft it felt in his own, and then turned to leave.

_____

That night, after removing his bow tie and tux, Mycroft decided on a hot bath and drew it himself. The young man was still on his mind. His green eyes. Short brown hair. His lips.

He wasn't accustomed to being so affected and once he was under the water with his eyes closed it got worse. Sir...he'd called him handsome and he'd called him sir. Now, Mycroft knew he wasn't hideous, he'd always had a pull on a pony club type girl, but he definitely wasn't handsome. At least, he thought not. 

Before he joined the government he'd had a few girlfriends but he was definitely homosexual. Women did nothing for him but he tried to keep up the premise of heterosexuality. He figured at some point, if he got the the level he was interested in, he'd need to have a wife and children. So, yes, pony club girls found him charming at least, but never the men he wanted.

He'd had crushes on his older brother's friends and when Roger was in uni he'd spent many a night listening in on stories of college life and how open and eager everyone was to new experiences. When he'd made it to uni he hadn't found the same thing.

Yes, he had what some would call friends but he was much more respected than liked. His friends were more likely to need his help than to set him up with anyone and by that point he'd already asserted himself as only interested in women. So, the few times he got to have someone it was spent in a club or at a party and even then it wasn't very frequent.

What I'm getting at is that Mycroft definitely knew how to take care of himself. 

And so there he was, up to his neck in warm, fragrant bath water with his hand on his cock, thinking once again of Adi. The young man's lips as he smiled up at him. The way his body was warm under his blazer. 

He let his head fall back and thought of Adi's neck. What he would give to lick it, to nuzzle just behind his ear, to bite him gently. He stroked his cock and thought of stripping the younger man, thought of his pale skin and pebbled nipples. He thought of his voice saying sir and fucked up into his fist, water going over the edge and into his mouth. He coughed it out and grunted and came into his hand, eyes clenched closed, and for once it felt rather good. 

Who knew, maybe he WAS sort of handsome.


	5. M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets Sherlock to eat and we look back in time for a second glance at Adi.

PRESENT TIME

Sherlock was walking circles. His legs hurt. He was tired and his bloody legs hurt. They felt cramped and the only thing that seemed to help, if only a small amount, was walking. It was making John dizzy.

"I've got some buprenorphine for you," John said, standing and going to a locked cabinet.

He slipped his ID discs over his head and used the key attached to open it and take out a needle-free syringe and a bottle. Sherlock didn't look up. He didn't listen. His legs hurt. John pulled up the correct dose and brought it over, holding his hand out slowly, as if to a wild animal.

"Take this," he said. "In your cheek against the gum line. I'll be right back."

He watched Sherlock take the syringe suspiciously before emptying it into his cheek. The way he looked at the syringe before setting it aside was with obvious disdain. John unlocked the door to the bay and spoke to one of the guards. He let the man into the room to watch Sherlock and quickly walked to the canteen.

"Doc," Murray said, running to match his pace. "We thought you'd given up on us."

"Not just yet," John said, aching for his friend's companionship.

"Busy with the spy?" Murray asked with a grin. "How come he gets special treatment?"

"Because he's a pain in the arse," John replied, getting a tray and loading it with food and drink.

"I can be a pain in the arse," Murray said with a salacious wink, reaching down to steal a bit of potato.

"Don't you wish," John replied, taking a second to look over his friend. "Do me a favor, will you?"

"Anything, Doc," Murray said, standing a bit taller as if awaiting instruction.

"Be careful for once in your bloody life," John said, affection for the man tight in his chest. "At least his week. If you get torn up and I don't get to patch you I'll...just don't, yeah?"

Murray rolled his eyes but nodded, secretly loving when his captain played at being his dad. It warmed a bit of him he pretended not to have.

"Good, well, I'm off," John said, turning to leave.

"When are you gonna feed me up?" Murray shouted after.

"In your dreams, Murr, in your dreams," John returned.

"Every night, Doc," Murray replied cheekily.

John chuckled and made his way back to the medical bay and then to his small office. The guard nodded and unlocked the door. John was honestly surprised to find Sherlock laying back on the exam table with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He'd thought the guard inside might've had him in a headlock at that point. The guard nodded towards him and left, locked the door carefully behind.

"I've got food," John said, setting the tray down and buttering a piece of toast.

"Not hungry," Sherlock replied, legs twitching.

"Not my problem," John said, bringing the toast and a glass of orange juice over.

Sherlock rolled onto his side and glared at John. When the doctor simply raised an eyebrow Sherlock sat and took the toast, eating it with a grimace before taking the orange juice too.

"Thank you," John said, sitting at his desk and tearing into his eggs and beans.

"I hate this," Sherlock said, standing and going to slip on the house shoes John had set out for him.

"That's the general consensus," John replied, chewing and bringing another spoonful of food to his lips.

"Didn't your mum teach you not to speak with your mouth full?" Sherlock asked, going to stand by John.

"Didn't your mum teach you to mind your own business?" John shot back, smug smile on his face as he chewed.

"You are my business," Sherlock responded, sitting on the edge of the desk and wiggling his feet. "For now, at least."

"Is that so?" John asked, licking his teeth and sitting back in his seat to look up at the man. "How do you suppose?"

"You obviously need someone to watch after you or they would've sent someone else to bother me," Sherlock said flatly, poking John with his toe.

"Oh, of course, I forgot I was the patient," John said with a snort, picking up a bit of beans on a piece of toast and holding it out. Sherlock frowned at him and crossed his arms against his chest. "Pretty please," John said, both eyebrows raised.

"You're horrible," Sherlock replied, leaning in to take it between his lips.

John shrugged and picked his spoon back up. "At least we have that in common."

Sherlock looked affronted for a second before picking at his nails and letting John eat.

_____

TWO AND A HALF YEARS PRIOR

Mycroft was surprised a week after meeting Adi to find him in the waiting room when he came into work one morning. He stopped where he was and watched the other man filling in paperwork. After a few moments Adi looked up.

"Mr Holmes," he said.

"Adi," Mycroft replied. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm interning," Adi replied. "My uncle set it up."

Mycroft didn't believe him. "You never told me who your uncle was," he said, hands going into his pockets.

"He's the PM," Adi replied.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow to his assistant and the woman nodded, not looking up from her mobile.

"Well, I'm sure we'll be quite pleased to have you," Mycroft replied.

His assistant followed him into his office and closed the door behind herself.

"How exactly did this get set up?" Mycroft asked.

"The PM himself put in the call. The boy is living with him for the summer and he needed something to do," his assistant replied. "Problem?"

"No," Mycroft replied. "No problem."

He assistant nodded and left the room.

_____

An hour later there was a knock on his door and Adi poked his head in.

"What can I do for you?" Mycroft asked.

"Just bringing you copy paper, sir," Adi said, walking in and closing the door.

"In the corner," Mycroft replied, nodding towards the printer.

"I'm sorry if I was...inappropriate the other night," Adi said softly as he opened the drawer on the printer and tore open the paper bundle. "I was just a little star-struck."

"Star-struck?" Mycroft sputtered, not liking at all how the younger man always managed to catch him off guard.

"Well, yes. My uncle talks about you quite a lot. He said you're a genius," Adi said. "You're like M."

Mycroft looked at him, confused.

"M, from Bond," Adi explained, and then, "you tell all the spies what to do."

"Not exactly," Mycroft said, willing his body not to blush.

Adi rolled his eyes and snorted. "Don't be humble, sir. It's a compliment."

Mycroft swallowed and was surprised at the words coming from his mouth. "You liked this M character more than Bond, then?"

"Of course," Adi replied enthusiastically. "Bond isn't really in control. Besides, M is mysterious and Bond is just a show off."

Mycroft smiled a bit and thought of his brothers. It was true, after all. "He was very good at his job, though. And he always got the girl," he said, not sure why he was trying to talk Adi out of it.

"I was never interested in the girl," Adi replied, closing the paper drawer and turning the machine on. Mycroft choked on his tea and Adi smiled at him, eyes darting away once he'd noticed. "Do you need anything else, sir?" He asked.

"That'll be all, I think," Mycroft replied, flustered.

"More tea in a while, sir?" Adi asked, standing with his hand on the door like he didn't really want to leave.

"I suppose so," Mycroft conceded, his cup was almost empty.

Adi nodded and opened the door, almost running into Mycroft's assistant as he she walked through it. He apologised quickly and left, looking back as the door was closed.

"Do you need an appointment at the Diogenes?" She asked, quite a bit more frank than Mycroft was comfortable with.

"I don't know what you mean," he said, jaw clenching.

"I could find someone young this time," she added. "If there's something you need to...get out of your system. Say, nineteen years-"

"Stop," Mycroft interrupted. "You're out of line."

"Am I?" She asked, for once looking up from her mobile to lock eyes with him.

"If you've forgot your place I can assure you-" he tried.

"My place is at your side. I won't let you get pulled down for a quick shag," she said.

"Get out," he growled. "Now."

"Of course, sir," she replied, turning and leaving the room.

Mycroft slammed his fist down on the table and gritted his teeth.


	6. Hell And Sandwiches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get rough at the base and Mycroft lets off some steam.

PRESENT TIME

Sherlock was in the throws of a shivering fit when he finally broke in front of John. John had been watching him and trying to think of something to say to distract the man. He didn't know what to do, it wasn't as if he'd detoxed anyone before. He'd caught up on procedure that first day while Sherlock slept off the sedative and wasn't really surprised to find the medication he needed was already in the bay (Sherlock's pushy brother was with the government, and fairly high up it seemed, after all.). Beyond that was only what he'd read on the internet. He was meant to keep Sherlock busy but with nothing but a deck of cards and a radio that played music he didn't want to listen to he was stuck.

"Do you thing there's a God?" Sherlock asked hoarsely, rolling onto his side and pulling the wool blanket closer around himself.

John looked up and swallowed stiffly before nodding. "I think there's probably something like that."

"I think I'm going to hell," Sherlock replied, eyes closing.

"You're a bit difficult, I'll give you that, but don't you think that's a bit much?" John asked, going for levity but asking it weakly.

"Have you killed a man, Doctor?" Sherlock asked, looking John in the eyes, teeth chattering.

"John."

"Answer the question, John," Sherlock pressed.

"Yes," John replied, jaw set. "Bit hard to avoid it out here. You?"

"Too many," Sherlock replied.

"Well," John said with a sad smile, "I'm sure they were bad men."

"How?" Sherlock asked, leaning over to spit in the bucket.

"How what?" John ached for the conversation to be over. 

"How are you so sure?" Sherlock asked.

"Unless it was a back alley brawl, which I guess I shouldn't discount, then it was for work. You wouldn't be asked to kill someone without reason," John explained. 

"Do you ever wonder if that's true? If men should really have to die in war? Or beyond? God knows the sort of war I'm fighting isn't the same as yours," Sherlock said, looking him in the eye with bruising intensity.

"You've turned rather philosophic," John replied, looking down at his hands, the same hands that had brought an end to lives and saved them in the same day. Resurrection and destruction.

"I think I'm going to die," Sherlock said gravely.

"You won't die. Might feel like it right now but you'll be much better in the next week or so. There might be some lingering-" John tried.

"You're not listening!" Sherlock growled. 

"Okay, okay," John said, holding his hands out in pacification. "I'll listen. Why do you think you're going to die?"

"My brother died. He was a much better agent that I am and he died," Sherlock said, his panting turning into a sob as he curled around himself. "I couldn't stop it! I couldn't stop it! I couldn't-"

John was up and across the room before he could think of what he was doing. He stopped in front of Sherlock, face screwed up, and put a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock's hands gripped his shirt and John was pulled into an uncomfortable sort of half embrace. He felt himself blush and looked around the empty room guiltily.

"You'll...um, you'll be-" he tried, clearing his throat.

Sherlock sniffled and pulled away, wiping at his eyes and grimacing. John took a few steps backwards, eyes falling to the floor.

"I apologize," Sherlock said, voiced pinched and hands balled into fists. "That was uncalled for."

"It's...fine," John replied, going to wet a washcloth.

Sherlock scoffed and stood, chewing his nails violently and cursing at himself. John hung his head, wanting to stop the man but stuck. It wasn't his place. They weren't friends. He was the man's bloody Doctor, for god's sake. He shouldn't feel like that...like he had to care for the man as a friend. He shouldn't feel the need to hold Sherlock and run his fingers through errant curls until he was breathing evenly against his chest.

"Would you like a shower?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded and John swallowed hard and went to unlock the door. He looked back for a second as Sherlock dried his traitorous tears on his vest, pale stomach looking especially vulnerable.

_____

Mycroft wasn't in the habit of going out to random bars. He also wasn't in the habit of flirting with random men. It wasn't the lifestyle he was comfortable with but his assistant had been right; there was something he needed to get out of his system.

No matter the allusion to his life being a Bond movie, he lived it as an unknown British citizen and nothing more. It was obvious he had money, but so did brokers and solicitors. Because of that he was able to sneak off to any bar he liked and get a cheap brandy. What happened next was up to him.

He'd planned on getting off with someone in a dark alley, hands on each other's cocks and breath hot between them. What he didn't expect was to be picked up so quickly. He'd got a drink and was taking the first sip when a man slid into the seat next to him. He looked him up and down, deducing that he was a cop, and looked back into his drink.

"Haven't seen you 'round here before," the man said, hand going up to the bar-keep.

"Haven't been around here," Mycroft replied.

"Can I buy you another?" the man asked.

"Haven't quite started this one," Mycroft said, glancing over.

The man licked his lips and pulled Mycroft's glass towards himself, picking it up and drinking it in one go. He set it down and nodded to the waiter then looked back over.

"Can I buy you another?" He asked again.

"You're rather pushy," Mycroft said, licking his lips.

The man smiled back at him and the bar-keep set a fresh glass down. 

_____

By the time they were properly pissed Mycroft was giggling and letting himself be manhandled into the alleyway. 

"Gonna suck you off," the man said, undoing Mycroft's belt buckle.

"Hands only," Mycroft insisted. 

The man nodded and leaned in to snog him roughly as he pulled his cock out and started stroking. He held his hand out and Mycroft spit in it, head falling back against the brick wall with a thunk as the policeman sped up his fist. It took three tries but Mycroft managed to get his hand into the other man's denims and then pants, moaning low as he felt how thick his cock was. He was massive, and not just in girth.

"Yeah, you like that?" The man asked, kissing down Mycroft's neck.

"Yes," Mycroft panted.

They stroked each other to a quick completion, no matter the amount of alcohol in their veins, and then clumsily did up their trousers.

"That was good," the cop said. "Do you maybe want to do that some other time?"

"I'm afraid my job doesn't allow for that sort of thing. Perhaps we'll meet again," Mycroft said flatly, feeling more sober than he would have liked and a bit foolish.

The man scratched the back of his head and bit his lip as Mycroft retreated down the alley.

_____

The next morning when Adi came into work Mycroft was refreshed to see such innocence and youth. He'd enjoyed his encounter the night before but that kind of interaction, hot and fast and brutal, always left him feeling rather out of sorts. He didn't like the vulnerability no matter how much being ravaged filled some other, much darker, need.

"Morning, sir," Adi said with a smile.

"And to you, Adi," Mycroft replied. "How was your weekend?"

"Boring, sir. Stuck at home with the family. I never get to go out," Adi said, handing Mycroft some papers and standing across from him. "Do you?"

"Go out?" Mycroft asked, sure it wouldn't be appropriate to tell the young man about his night at the pub.

"Yes, sir," Adi replied, eyes locked with Mycroft's.

"Not really," Mycroft said. 

Adi swallowed and nodded, standing where he was a bit longer than necessary. "Perhaps we can get a sandwich for lunch," he said. "Out."

Mycroft smiled and fiddled his the things on his desk. Christ, if the young man wasn't persistent. "Adi," he tried.

"Not like that..." Adi interrupted. "Just a sandwich."

Mycroft breathed deeply and sat back in his chair, looking the younger man up and down, trying to parse out the truth. Finally he conceded, the balance of discouragement and hope on Adi's face winning him over.

"Just a sandwich," he said. 

The smile on Adi's face was worth it. He nodded and turned to leave then spun around to face Mycroft once more. "Thank you, sir," he said softly.

Mycroft nodded and pretended to focus on the papers he'd been given, the prospect of a simple sandwich never before being so appealing.


	7. Stupid, Stupid Bastards And Their Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yarnjunkie wanted me to name this chapter 'stupid, stupid bastards and their faces', so I did. 
> 
> John and Sherlock clean up and Mycroft has a sandwich with Adi.

PRESENT TIME

Their walk to the showers was silent, John leading the way, shower kit and fresh clothes in hand. Sherlock was tailed by two guards and frowned, pushing his curls off his forehead over and over. He left disgusting. He'd showered not long ago but the sweat that was covering him and the oily residue in his hair had him itchy. He never liked feeling unclean.

"We have stalls. I'm going to shower as well, if you don't mind," John said, walking into the building and going to one of the sinks.

"Are they going to watch?" Sherlock asked, arms tight around himself, nodding to the guards.

"No, but they'll be by the door," John said, picking out a single use soap and shampoo and setting them atop a towel for Sherlock. "You can have a shave back in the bay."

"Fine," Sherlock said, taking the pile from John and going to the farthest shower stall to undress.

John watched him in the mirror for a few moments, tracking the way his body moved, before leaning over the sink to brush his teeth. When the shower finally turned on his quickly devested and went to shower in the stall directly next to Sherlock.

"How's it going over there?" He asked, waiting for the water to take on some semblance of warmth before wetting his hair.

"That's a stupid question," Sherlock replied.

John shook his head and smiled. He wasn't wrong. "Have you got everything you need?" He asked.

Sherlock looked down at his hands with a frown as he attempted to get every last drop of shampoo out of the small packet. His hair had grown longer than regulation over the last three months and was just starting to cover his ears. The packet wouldn't be enough.

"I need more shampoo," he admitted.

John poured a small amount into his hand and then passed his personal bottle over the stall. Sherlock took it and turned it over in his hands.

"Strawberry?" Sherlock asked, voice full of disdain.

"It came in a care package," John replied quickly.

Sherlock sniffed the bottle and poured some into his hand. "Doesn't smell like strawberry."

"Not really," John replied with a soft smile, "but it reminds me of home."

"From your mum?" Sherlock asked, finally being able to bring his curls to a lather.

"No, um, she's gone. It was from one of those programs. Not from anyone I know," John said, unwilling to admit that he didn't have anyone at home that would send him anything.

Sherlock swallowed roughly. Thinking of the fact that Mycroft hadn't sent him anything even though he'd obviously been in charge of signing him up for this bullshit experiment. 

"Do you have enough soap?" John asked, trying to quiet the voices in his own head.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said, holding the miniature bar in the palm of his hand.

"Good, that's...good," John replied uncomfortably, soaping his body up and trying desperately not to think of the other man doing the same.

Sherlock rinsed his hair and started to clean his body as quickly as possible. He wanted to be done and out and back to laying his aching body on the crinkling paper of the exam table. 

They both finished with their showers and Sherlock joined John at the sink, taking a proffered toothbrush and going about his business as John shaved next to him. John watched him in the mirror but the attention didn't seem to put Sherlock off at all.

"How long is this going to go on before I can leave?" Sherlock asked, finally giving up on watching John and sitting on the floor in a ball watching the guards.

"A week in the least," John replied, shaving his upper lip.

"Are the guards really necessary? Don't you think we've come to some sort of-" Sherlock keeled over and vomited his meal all over the floor. 

"I'll have someone clean that up," John said, leaning down to rub Sherlock's back before putting toothpaste back on the brush he'd used and setting it on the edge of the sink. "And yes, they're necessary. Not my idea though. I suspect your brother thought you'd be quite a bit more violent."

"I'm not violent," Sherlock said weakly, laying on his side and looking away from the pile of vomit.

"I know," John said, not really sure how he knew after only being around the man for a short while. "Brush your teeth again and we'll head back."

"I don't want to go back," Sherlock replied.

_____

TWO AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER

Mycroft said a quick goodbye to his assistant and joined Adi in the hall. Adi smiled at him and they walked down and out to the street to Mycroft's waiting sedan. Adi slid in next to Mycroft and the sedan pulled away from the kerb, heading in the direction of Mycroft's favorite fish and chips spot.

"Thank you for this," Adi said, fidgeting in his seat. "I feel like I haven't been able to get to know London. I just sit around at home when I'm not helping you."

'When I'm not helping you,' Mycroft thought. A strange turn of phrase.

"Doesn't the family take you out?" Mycroft asked, looking down at the younger man's muscled thigh before looking back out the window.

"They're all busy," Adi said. "Too busy to babysit me."

The men grew silent after that and Mycroft's only thought the rest of the way to the shop was how close Adi was and how warm his skin would be. He hated his brain for being so persistent in its obsession with the young man. No matter how many times he told himself it wasn't an option, that it was career suicide, his brain still turned in Adi's direction.

"At least you aren't too busy," Adi said minutes later, just as they were pulling up to the shop.

"I live a rather dull life," Mycroft said, the life of the British government being busy but not exciting.

"Ah, that's a shame," Adi said, smiling back at him as he opened the door. "I bet you'd be fun on the dance floor."

Mycroft grimaced and followed him out and into the small shop. They sat near the front and both ordered the Reuben on rye and waited for it.

"Now that I've got you here I feel a bit nervous," Adi said, picking at his paper napkin.

"No need to be nervous," Mycroft replied, sitting back in his seat and reminding himself it was very much not a date.

"How did you get into politics, sir?" Adi asked, what seemed to be true interest gleaming in his eyes.

Mycroft smiled. "My older brother. He's always been my hero. He thought I'd have a mind for it. I hope he was right."

"You're brilliant," Adi said, fingers tracing shapes on the tablecloth as he smiled gently at Mycroft. "As far as I can tell you'd succeed anywhere."

Mycroft laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Not quite. I was to be a field agent originally. My asthma didn't agree with it. Field work is always seen as the much more attractive bet."

"I think you make desk work rather attractive on its own, sir," Adi said.

Mycroft was wondering what to say to that when their food came. They ate in companionable silence for a while before Mycroft finally figured out what he wanted to ask.

"Are you interested in government work, Adi? Besides just interning over the summer," he pressed.

"Oh, yes, sir!" Adi said excitedly. "I want to make a difference."

"Will you be going back to Germany at the end of the summer, then?" Mycroft asked, not sure why the question made him uneasy.

"It's difficult at home," Adi said. "My father is in the hospital here and my mother is dead. If my father doesn't get well I'll have to stay...or if I find a reason to stay."

"And...do you like London?" Mycroft asked.

"More every day, sir," Adi replied, smiling softly.

Mycroft swallowed and smiled back taking the last bite of his sandwich and leaning forward on his elbows. Adi grinned and put his arm out, brushing his napkin across Mycroft's upper lip before pulling it back and crumpling it into a small ball.

"Sauce," he said, licking his lips.

Mycroft felt affection and arousal bloom in his chest and looked out the window to hide his blushing cheeks; he didn't look good in pink.


	8. Everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get rocky between John and Sherlock, and Mycroft finds out a secret of Adi's.

PRESENT TIME

Sherlock hated the clothes. The trousers were baggy in the legs and even though the weather was hot he felt strange in a spare vest. Not to mention the materials used. He itched. He itched and sweated through everything and was picking at a scab to watch it bleed when they finally got back to the alley behind the small medical bay.

"Stop that," John said, gripping Sherlock's wrist and knowing immediately that it was very much a bad idea.

Sherlock's nostrils flared and he wrenched his arm back and pushed John away forcefully. John caught the eyes of the guards and they stood back.

"I'm sorry," John said, aiming for calm.

"You don't get to touch me!" Sherlock growled, shoulders raised and teeth bared. "I don't care who you are. You don't get to touch me. I say who touches me. You aren't allowed."

"I'm sorry," John reiterated, hands held behind his back as Sherlock became belligerent.

"You aren't sorry!" Sherlock shouted. "You keep doing it and you never asked! You never asked! You just took!"

"I won't touch you again without express permission," John assured him.

Sherlock scratched at the back of his head, eyes twitching between the doctor and the guards, looking as if he might bolt.

"You can trust me," John said.

"Liar," Sherlock hissed, walking past John and on to their destination. 

John gave the guards the all clear and followed Sherlock at what he hoped was a respectable distance. Sherlock slammed his way into the bay and went to a corner to curse and spit at nothing. John swallowed and sat at his desk to wait the strop out. 

Sherlock was right, of course. He hadn't only touched Sherlock without permission but had restrained him while he was sedated against his permission. John hated that part of the job, though he had only been in the situation two times before. Once he'd had to sedate his old bunk mate when the man had become suicidal and a danger to himself, another time he'd had to hold down an injured soldier while she screamed and tried to scratch away at the burns covering her mangled left arm. 

The Hippocratic oath seemed to be intact after each of those instances but not so much in Sherlock's case. He'd been angry when the commander sedated him but he didn't seem violent enough for that action. He still didn't like the outcome. He'd now have to deal with the betrayal that he'd assumed, wrongly assumed, they'd somehow glossed over. 

They weren't friends, he reminded himself. Sherlock had no reason to trust him. 

_____

Several hours later Sherlock had settled down enough that he had asked about shaving. John sat him down in a chair and got a wet cloth and shaving cream ready.

"Do you mind if I do the honors?" John asked, learning from his mistakes apparently.

Sherlock swallowed, crossing his arms, and nodded.

"I'll just..." John said, leaning in to lather up Sherlock's face. "It's been a while since I did this for someone."

"Yes, yes, get on with it," Sherlock murmured, eyes closing.

John grabbed a fresh razor from his kit and started to shave Sherlock carefully, hand moving in smooth lines as he drew skin taut and left behind perfectly clean skin. When he got to Sherlock's upper lip the man gripped his wrist. John stilled and his eyes went wide.

"Do you see how disturbing that is?" Sherlock asked, eyes boring into John's.

"Yes," John said, something completely different than disturbed striking him as Sherlock's thumb rubbed along his wrist.

"You're blushing," Sherlock said, eyes flitting back and forth.

John swallowed and looked away. "May I finish?"

Sherlock rubbed his thumb up and into John's palm slowly before finally letting go. John breathed deeply and went back to shaving. 

_____

TWO AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER

Mycroft should have been embarrassed at his behavior, it wasn't on to be following an intern via CCTV after all, but instead he found a sort of sick thrill in it. And he wasn't hurting the boy (man), so it wasn't as if there were any real consequences for his behavior. Besides, if he was questioned he would simply say that he was concerned for the young man's safety as it was now widely known that he was the nephew of the Prime Minister.

And that was how he found himself watching Adi exit a cab one night in a famously gay part of town for the tenth time that month. This time though, the man didn't slip away into an alley but instead had the nerve to walk right to the front door of a club while the cab was still at the kerb. 

If the cabbie happened to be one to brag and recognised Adi that could become a political disaster. Mycroft could see the headlines now, "PM's nephew seen going into gay bar!", and he wouldn't just watch it happen. He called his driver and had him wait downstairs.

_____

The drive didn't take long but Mycroft was twitching with anticipation when they arrived nonetheless. He had the man park in the alley and leave the motor running while he pulled his coat around himself and entered through the back door. He kept his head down as he looked around for Adi.

What he found actually surprised him. He wasn't used to being surprised.

Adi was walking around in a pair of spandex shorts, hair put up with gel, and eyeliner applied. His body was covered in a sheen of pink glitter and he held a tray of shot glasses on his shoulder as he moved, taking money from random men and passing out drinks.

Mycroft watched as a large man approached and leaned in to speak in Adi's ear. Adi shook his head and tried to walk away and the man gripped his arm causing several of the glasses to spill. 

Mycroft crossed the room in no time, gripping the larger man's wrist and wrenching it behind his back in one smooth move. He felt one of the thin bones snap and pushed at the back of the man's knees, leaving him in agony on the floor as he took the tray and Adi's hand, laying the former on the bar on their way out to the street.

Adi's eyes were wide as he was dragged from the building and pushed into the waiting sedan. Mycroft slid in next to him and didn't take a second to look at the boy before directing his driver to bring them to his home. They rode the entire way in silence.

_____

Adi was sitting on Mycroft's bed as the older man got a warm washcloth and dressing gown from the en suite twenty minutes later. He came back and passed Adi the dressing gown without looking him in the eye.

"I'm not exactly sure what in god's name you were doing in that club," he said, turning as Adi slipped the gown around himself and tied it at his waist. "It was extremely foolish of you."

Adi sat and looked up at Mycroft and they finally locked eyes. 

"Do you understand the kind of trouble this could have got you into?" Mycroft asked, leaning forward to scrub the glitter and rouge from Adi's face.

"You don't know," Adi said. "You don't know what it's like."

Mycroft refolded the cloth and started to scrub the younger man's neck, the skin covered in pink glitter.

"They hate me," Adi said. "They hate me and I need a flat. I needed to make money."

"Didn't you think?" Mycroft asked, throwing the cloth to the floor and looking at Adi with all the anger that had welled up at the traitorous knowledge that other men got to look at Adi the way he wished he could. "Why in god's name did you think this would be a good idea? You foolish boy!"

Mycroft found himself gripping Adi by the shoulders and shaking him. Fat tears welled up in Adi's eyes and fell onto his cheeks, leaving trails of mascara in their wake.

"They hate me!" Adi sobbed. "Everyone hates me!"

Mycroft's hands loosened. This poor boy. This poor boy who was out of place and had no one he felt he could trust, and here he was shaking him like a rag doll.

"Everyone," Adi sobbed. "Everyone."

"That's not true," Mycroft said moving one hand to wipe away a tear. "I don't hate you."

Adi's brow furrowed and he surged up, hand gripping the back of Mycroft's neck and mouth colliding with too much teeth. Mycroft hated himself for kissing back but he was overwhelmed and was suddenly climbing atop Adi and pressing him to the bed.

Adi moaned and wrapped his arms around Mycroft and let the older man plunder his mouth and grip his hair. Before Mycroft knew it Adi was rolling his hips and thrusting up, cock hard beneath the thin fabric of his shorts and slotting perfectly with his own. He couldn't stop himself from rutting eagerly and nipping and sucking at the younger man's neck.

"You taste of raspberries," he panted, not at all concerned with the grit of the glitter on his tongue.

"Oh, God, please," Adi moaned, clenching his arms tighter and lifting his arse off the bed. "Please, sir."

Mycroft growled, completely overtaken by lust, and slid to the floor, shoulders bracketed by Adi's knees. He mouthed at the younger man's bollocks, wetting the fabric with saliva, and watched with hungry eyes as Adi squirmed and began to come. He shoved a hand into his trousers and jerked his cock roughly, chasing his own orgasm as he felt the bollocks against his mouth draw up and twitch.


	9. Flight Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have an interesting night and Mycroft wars with himself and his suddenly-quite-interested prick.

There was a knock at the door and both John and Sherlock glanced up. 

"I suppose I'll get that," John said, setting his book down and walking across the small room to slip a key in the door and peer out.

He was surprised to find Murray on the other side. They hadn't spoken in three days, what felt like years, and he'd almost forgot how much he missed the bloke.

"What can I do for you, Murr?" John asked, opening the door a bit wider and loosening his grip on the handle.

Sherlock watched the way John's body changed from action-ready to relaxed and open. The man was a fellow soldier...and beyond that, a friend. The man was one of John's friends. He would probably resent Sherlock for making John spend all his time locked away, taking him from what he really loved and making his life a sort of boring hell.

"The lads and I wanted to see if you and your flight risk were up for a hand of poker," the man replied, voice coloured by the obvious smile on his face.

Flight risk. Christ. That was what John thought of him, wasn't it? Sherlock breathed deeply and wondered if it was John that came up with the moniker. John glanced over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows.

"I suppose I could do with fleecing the lot of you," Sherlock replied flatly.

There was a strange fondness to the way John breathed through his nose, chest expanding, and smiled at him. The quick lick of the lips did not go unnoticed.

"He reckons he's a better player than me, Murray," John said, eyes twinkling and not leaving Sherlock's.

"Suppose you'll have to prove him wrong, Doc," Murray said, leaning in conspiratorially and looking over John's shoulder. 

"Suppose I will. What have you got to bet, Sherlock?" John asked, shoulders back like a bird trying to impress a mate.

'That blow job you never took me up on,' Sherlock thought hungrily.

"I had some money in my wallet when I was...detained. Unless one of you spent it," he replied.

John squinted and walked across the room to his locker, opening it and pulling out Sherlock's wallet. He almost tossed it to the man before thinking better of it and pulling out what folding money was there. Three different types of folding money. 

"Alright," John said grinning at Sherlock as he pocketed the money, "let's go."

Sherlock got up from his seat, groaning a bit, and followed the two men out into a surprisingly pleasant evening. There were plenty of stars out and Sherlock had the sudden notion that he was very small and that the universe was very vast and that things hadn't turned out as horribly as they could have. Sure, he was in a bit of pain and discomfort but four days in and the side effects were being suitably managed by the medication John had been giving him and he was actually feeling rather good.

The walk wasn't that far and when they got to the tent Sherlock almost wished it had been a longer trip. His muscles ached to be used. He wanted to run and spar and fuck, stretch himself to his full potential and feel the burn that came along with intense exercise.

The tent was huge and loud and made Sherlock's brain crinkle at the edges with the stark difference to the place he'd been trapped in for half a week. He felt the noise grate as he followed John to a seat and everyone cheered.

"Captain!" One man exclaimed. "We thought you'd gone AWOL!"

"Bullshit!" Another yelled. "Cap would never leave. He's got nothin' better to do than patch us up!"

John shook his head and took Sherlock's money out and passed it to him under the table. The feel of Sherlock's skin was something he wouldn't admit he wanted more of.

"You lot done complimenting me?" He asked loudly. "Cause I'm here to take your money and leave you weeping on the floor."

He turned and winked at Sherlock and the younger man felt stirrings in his chest. John was different like this. He was cajoling and smarmy and so very alive. Sherlock was suddenly hit by how utterly handsome the man was when he was happy. It was like someone found a switch in him and flicked it, causing a warmth Sherlock had only seen hints of to overwhelm. He wasn't dull, he was incandescent. He was radiant. He was-

"You in there, Sher?" John asked under his breath as he shuffled the cards.

Sher. It was what he'd done with Murray's name. It felt personal and fun and Sherlock found he quite liked it.

"Right here, Cap," Sherlock replied with a small smile. "Can't you shuffle any faster? We haven't got all night."

John chuckled loudly and shook his head, the warmth in Sherlock's chest expanding and nearly choking him. 

_____

TWO AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER

Mycroft pulled a nearly sleeping Adi into the loo and positioned him on the toilet lid while he started up the shower. Adi watched him move with lidded eyes and a soft smile. When the water was finally warm enough Mycroft had him stand and peeled him out of his little shorts and socks, turning him by his shoulders and pushing him gently under the spray.

He took his own clothes off and joined the younger man a few minutes later, finding he hadn't moved an inch to start cleaning himself.

"Wet your hair, Adi. We've got to rinse out all that bloody glitter," he said, picking up the shampoo.

"Can't move," Adi mumbled, eyes closed.

Mycroft chuckled and adjusted the shower head with one hand while shielding Adi's eyes with the other. Adi moaned happily as the warm water washed over him and Mycroft pulled him closer. He picked the shampoo up again and rubbed a good amount into Adi's short hair, scraping his nails gently against his scalp.

Glitter ran down Adi's shoulders and circled the drain while Mycroft rinsed his head and turned him so he could scrub his back down.

"I'm not sure all of this will come off," he said, rubbing the loofah in circles.

"Never does," Adi replied. "Always have some stuck somewhere."

Mycroft breathed deeply and pulled the younger man against him.

"I meant my ears," Adi explained, body undulating in Mycroft's grasp, "you dirty man."

Mycroft moaned and licked a stripe down Adi's neck, silencing him completely and making him sag in his arms.

"This is a horrible idea," Mycroft murmured against Adi's skin.

"I won't tell anyone," Adi replied, voice weak.

Mycroft pulled back and turned him around forcefully. "That's not what I meant. That's not what I meant at all," he said, brushing his thumbs across Adi's cheeks.

"But we can't," Adi said, eyes looking sad. "We can't tell anyone."

Mycroft's jaw clenched and his brilliant mind chased itself in circles like a mad dog. There had to be a solution. It couldn't be that bad, surely. But no, there was no solution. It was that bad. 'All that and more,' he thought.

"Let's get you clean and into bed. We can talk about this in the morning," he said, gripping the back of the younger man's neck for a moment before letting go.

_____

Adi slept in bed with Mycroft, wearing a pair of Mycroft's pyjamas with the cuffs rolled up, curled around him. It had been a very long time since Mycroft had shared a bed with anyone and the fact that he wanted to hold the man back was even more strange. Adi was warm and soft and his hair smelled of Mycroft's shampoo and there was this utterly strange thing deep inside Mycroft that said 'as it should be' to that last bit. 'Cover him in your scent,' it pushed, 'make him yours.'

Possessiveness was there, loud and clear, as it had been the night before when Mycroft had been so upset at the thought of other men watching a half naked Adi deliver drinks. It was barely even satiated with the younger man in his arms and that spoke to the fact that something about this was wrong. Mycroft wasn't used to listening to the crude, base part of his brain and he lay awake all night and into the morning disgusted with himself.

He needed to cut it off. If he was so disturbed it was surely a bad sign. If he was weighing the pros and cons that meant there were cons and in his personal life Mycroft never settled for anything he wasn't completely in control of. 

Control.

He was out of control.

He should have sent someone to retrieve the PM's nephew the night before, not gone himself. It was foolish and something he told him he wouldn't do. Watching the younger man was only allowed with the caveat that he wouldn't interfere. Don't interfere. Don't get involved. Don't get involved.

Adi stirred in his arms and huffed hot breath against his neck and it was enough to derail his thoughts. How on earth could he say no to this.

"Mmm," Adi hummed against his neck.

Mycroft ran his hand down the younger man's back and kissed the side of his head, breathing in the scent of his own shampoo again and sighing. He was sunk.


	10. Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone wins all the poker money and Mycroft makes a move.
> 
> Sorry it's been a few days, I've been very busy. I'm also dealing with some stress due to all the bullshit xenophobia going on in America right now. It affects me greatly when people are hurt around me and this whole year has been exhausting but God, this month?!?
> 
> Thank you for giving me a few days off to yell at racist family members over dinner and cry to my therapist. 
> 
> If you are out there and are Muslim I want you to know I support you in these trying times. If you are out there and are Syrian I want you to know I don't think you are a terrorist and I support you. If you are out here and are a person of color dealing with horrific and often daily abuse I want you to know I am with you. If you need to speak you can message me on this story and we can get in touch.

Sherlock's jaw dropped. It wasn't possible. Not again.

John sat back in the chair next to him and crossed his arms, head tilted as he smiled at Sherlock. "Pay up," he said.

"You obviously didn't shuffle properly," Sherlock replied, passing the money over.

Everyone else had left and now it was the two of them alone in the tent playing Go Fish. John laughed and started getting the cards together. Sherlock hadn't been able to crush him like he thought he would in poker so once the lads were all ready for bunk John challenged him to a less intense game.

"I told you that you could shuffle if you wanted. Didn't help you last round of poker, though, did it?" John teased.

That made the same thing roil in Sherlock's belly that had stopped him from being angry with John every time before. It confused the hell out of him because he'd never liked being teased and it usually made him more angry but with John...

"You ready for bed?" John asked, setting the pack of cards aside and standing up.

Sherlock thought on it and found that he was exhausted. He nodded and the two men walked out into the early morning. The sun wasn't up and the sky was still dark, stars like faerie lights strung high in the sky. Sherlock paused for a second, looking up.

"It's beautiful, don't you think?" He said, voice soft.

John watched his face, the way the moonlight fell on his cheeks and the cool air raised gooseflesh on his neck.

"It really is," he replied.

Sherlock glanced to him and John knew he'd been caught out. He pointed to the sky and cleared his throat.

"That's a constellation," he said. "The four in a circle like that. Can't remember the name but you can see it most nights."

Sherlock hadn't looked, eyes fixed on the person pointing instead of the thing being pointed at like a dog or small child. John was much more fascinating than the whole of the galaxy, after all. John and his inference that Sherlock was beautiful. 

"John," he murmured, watching the man's cheeks redden.

"Getting a bit chilly out here," John replied, turning back to the medical bay and walking towards it.

Sherlock followed, feeling like he'd follow John anywhere, and thanked the gods that the two guards had kept their distance. He caught up to John and matched his stride.

"I think I'd like to go for a walk tomorrow. If that could be arranged," he said.

John looked over, surprised. "You're feeling better then?"

"Still in a bit of pain and discomfort but I walked on a broken leg for three days in Hong Kong. I can handle it," Sherlock said.

"Three days on a broken leg?" John asked, eyes wide.

"It was only broken a little," Sherlock replied, suddenly not quite keen on all the attention.

"How do you break a leg a little?" John asked as he opened the door and walked across the room to turn a small light on.

"I don't really want to go there. It wasn't a good time," Sherlock admitted, walking past John and sitting on the exam table.

John nodded and went to slip out of his jacket. Sherlock watched him and then joined him at the small basin to brush his teeth. He was comfortable there, in that small room with John, brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed. It wasn't as bad as the hotel room he got trapped in two years prior in Helsinki. Here he had John.

John finished his teeth and went to slide into his cot. He lay on his side and watched as Sherlock rinsed his mouth and went to lay on the exam table, foam padding making for a shite bed but a bed nonetheless. 

"Shall I turn the light out?" John asked, hand reaching out to the desk lamp beside him.

Sherlock hummed agreement and closed his eyes. He could tell when the light was flicked off and heard John turn and settle.

"Goodnight, John," he said softly. "Tonight was...well, thank you anyhow."

John swallowed and nodded in the dark, agreeing completely. "Goodnight, Sherlock," he murmured.

"And we can go for a walk tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, sounding sleepy.

"If you like," John replied, smiling softly to himself. 

Sherlock sighed audibly and John wished he was close enough to rub the man's back. 

_____

TWO AND A HALF YEARS PRIOR

"You have to quit your job," Mycroft said, pushing ham around in a small skillet as Adi drank juice at the breakfast table.

"Can't," Adi said. "I told you, I need the money. All the jobs I could find paid half as much and didn't include tips. It's the only way I can afford my own place."

Mycroft plated the food he'd cooked, quite proud of himself for faring so well after sending the maid home for the day, and brought it to the table.

"What if you had a stipend? Don't worry where it came from. Would that help?" Mycroft asked, the idea flitting through his mind the whole night.

"Yes," Adi replied, "but I can't get you in trouble. I wouldn't do that, sir."

Mycroft sat down beside him and brushed a hand through his short hair. He was wrapped in a thick bath robe and was clean from the shower and still a bit damp. He sighed as Mycroft did so and let his eyes close.

"Stop worrying so much about me," Mycroft said, leaning forward to plant a small kiss on his open lips. "I can take care of myself."

"And me, too?" Adi asked, eyes opening.

"I can take care of you as well, yes," Mycroft said, something warm flowering in his chest at the thought. "Now eat up, young man."

Adi smiled and leaned against him and started to eat.

_____

The flat was small and out of town but that was better anyhow. That way no one would notice when a certain government worker stopped in for a visit. 

Adi loved it right away, with its small breakfast nook and sitting room that looked onto a garden. His things were moved there the next day and by the end of the week the flat was full of furniture and all the basics. That weekend Mycroft found himself reclining in the brand new bed he'd bought with his head resting on two plush pillows as he watched Adi undress.

"I'm sleepy," Adi said, walking over and climbing under the covers at Mycroft's side, naked body molding to Mycroft's.

Mycroft pulled him to his chest and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Then sleep now. I'll be here in the morning."

"Promise?" Adi asked, rolling onto his stomach and covering Mycroft's chest with his body.

"I promise, darling," Mycroft said, turning out the light and running a hand down the young man's soft back.

"I love you," Adi said, snuggling close and breathing deeply. "You make me feel safe."

Mycroft swallowed roughly and thought about saying it. He wasn't sure if this was really love, after all. They barely ever even talked about anything beyond themselves. He still felt like more of a mentor than anything but god if he wasn't attracted to the young man.

"Don't you love me?" Adi whispered, sounding close to tears. "You're all I've got."

"I do, sweet boy, I do," Mycroft lied. "I do."

Adi breathed in a deep wracking breath and settled against Mycroft's chest well enough. Mycroft picked up his mobile and started tapping out a response to something his assistant had sent him as the boy fell asleep.

IT DOESN'T MATTER WHERE I AM. I TOLD YOU I WAS SAFE. MH

He sent it and set the mobile aside and tried to fall asleep himself.


	11. Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pay attention.

THE PRESENT

Sherlock woke at half six in pain. He was having horrible cramps again and the groan he let out as he woke had John up and ready for action. He pulled up some pain medication and readied Sherlock's arm without a word.

"There'll be a little prick," he said, finding a fairly good vein, considering.

"You said you weren't watching me shower," Sherlock said, going for levity.

John smiled and put a plaster over the injection site. He sat next to Sherlock on the exam table, both of them in the light trousers you find in hospitals and vests. He gripped Sherlock's wrist and looked at his watch to take his pulse. Sherlock grew stiff in his grip and John let go.

"Sorry," he said, concerned. "I should've asked."

"It's alright," Sherlock replied, not meeting John's eyes as he was sure the man would see something other than apprehension or anger.

"It's really not. You told me to ask for consent and I forgot. I apologize."

Sherlock looked over and met John's eyes. The look seemed to be charged with something and John felt uncomfortable under it. He wanted to look away but found he couldn't.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said finally. "For all of this. I'm sorry you're stuck with me and not working to your full potential. I'm sorry I've been an awful patient."

"You aren't awful," John said. "I mean, at first, yeah, but now you're..."

Sherlock reached over and took John's hand, bringing it back to his left wrist and pressing John's fingers to the soft inside of it. John breathed deeply, looking into Sherlock's eyes.

"You have consent to touch me," Sherlock murmured, hand still covering John's.

John barely breathed after that, taking Sherlock's pulse and thinking that it was far too intimate, that he shouldn't be doing this, that he knew this was beyond his capacity as a caretaker. When he was done he hesitated before drawing his hand away and slipping it under his thigh as if it might move to take Sherlock's of its own accord.

"Do you want that walk, then?" He asked, eyes on the floor. "I'm sure, um, one of the guards wouldn't mind-"

"John," Sherlock murmured, causing John to glance up. "I'm sorry we didn't meet under different circumstances. I'm sorry I'm like this."

"It's not, I'm not-" John tried weakly.

"Take a walk with me. Just a walk," Sherlock implored.

"I don't think it would be just a walk," John admitted. 

"What would it be?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged and looked away.

"Please," Sherlock said softly.

John cleared his throat and nodded, getting up to brush his teeth at the basin. Sherlock joined him and watched him closely as he did, only brushing his own when John moved to apply deodorant and slip into his fatigues.

_____

John somehow managed to convince the guards to stay behind. And by somehow I mean easily. He was a Captain, after all, so his Captain voice was not only good but wholly genuine.

They started their walk out to the perimeter of the camp just as the sun was rising, the light rolling over the hills like an approaching army. The desert was vast in front of them as they finally passed the end of the camp and made their way into a sort of no man's land.

"It's peaceful out here," Sherlock said, "once you're past the camp. You can almost imagine it's not there if you don't look back."

"So don't look back," John said, hands held behind his back as they made their way slowly. "What did you mean when you said you were sorry? What did you mean by 'like this'?"

"A mess," Sherlock spit. "An addict."

"Why did you start?" John asked, not looking away from the skyline and hoping desperately that he wasn't being inappropriate.

The problem at that point was that they'd blurred the lines so much between them that he didn't know where appropriate began and ended anymore. He simply had no idea.

"It was just after my eldest brother died. I'd been falling apart before that but I think it sent me over," Sherlock admitted, confused as to how honest he was being.

"How did he die?" John asked.

Sherlock felt a pain in his chest and stopped walking for a moment. When he started up again he walked slower. John kept at his side.

"In the field. He was an agent, like me. My other brother Mycroft sent him into a situation I believe he knew he wouldn't come out of. The way Mycroft conveyed his passing to me was off, I knew something was up. There was no documentation of Roger's death anywhere. The whole situation had been blacked out. If I'd gone with him-"

"You can't blame yourself," John tried.

"I can, and will," Sherlock replied bitterly. "People say I can't blame myself like they can will me not to."

"I didn't mean-" John started.

"I know you meant well," Sherlock replied. "Everyone means well. Mycroft told me I had to get over my brother's death or he'd have to take me out of the field. He told me that I made Roger into a hero and that hero's don't exist."

"Arsehole," John said angrily.

Sherlock snorted and swallowed down his sadness. "Yes, that is the consensus."

"So you started using," John said.

"Mmm. Helped me push the feelings aside. They got in the way," Sherlock returned.

"You weren't offered any therapy?" John asked.

"If I'd admitted to being distraught they'd have revoked my mission. Mycroft said it would be better to forget all about it," Sherlock answered.

"And that worked really well, didn't it?" John said sarcastically.

Sherlock frowned at him and he stuck his hands in his pockets.

"Can't change any of that now, though," Sherlock said.

They walked for a time without talking and when Sherlock started to lag John turned towards camp. The sun heated their backs as they returned, reminding them that they were in the desert and far, far away from London.

"Are you going on your next mission when you're done here?" John asked.

"I'm going to quit," Sherlock said. "Find a place in London and start my life over. I've spent far too much time trying to please Mycroft."

"What do you think you'll do?" John asked, wondering suddenly if he'd ever see the other man after that week.

"Back to science, I suppose," Sherlock said as they approached the edge of camp.

There was a shout and a roar of engines before John could reply, jeeps approaching quickly and leaving plumes of dust and sand in their wake. John jogged to where they stopped and shouted commands as a group of men pulled three injured from the second jeep.

"Sherlock, come here!" John shouted over his shoulder as he knelt in front of the worst of the bunch and removed his scarf to press it to a wound.

Sherlock joined him and dropped to his knees.

"Press here," John said, and when Sherlock simply looked confused, "now, god damn it!"

Sherlock pressed to the wound and John elevated the man's leg.

"Now, do exactly what I say!" He ordered. 

Sherlock nodded quickly and did the best he could to keep up.

_____

TWO AND A HALF YEARS PRIOR

Roger was home on a break and was staying in Mycroft's guest room when Adi came to join them for dinner one night. He was less than thrilled. Mycroft's assistant had warned him that something untoward was going on.

"Roger, this is Adi. He's interning at the office," Mycroft said as he took Adi's coat and unwound the younger man's scarf with the obvious hands of a lover. Obvious to Roger, at least.

"Good to meet you, sir," Adi said, holding out his hand. "I've heard so much about you."

"That seems a little inappropriate," Roger countered, hands clasped behind his back.

Adi was shocked, as was Mycroft.

"Mycroft, can I speak to you in the study?" Roger said.

Mycroft followed him and angrily shut the door. "What on earth is wrong with you?" He asked.

"I should ask the same of you," Roger replied. "What are you doing sleeping with the intern? And the nephew of the Prime Minister?"

"I'm not-" Mycroft began.

"This is incredibly foolish of you."

"You're jealous!" Mycroft sputtered. "Because for once you're not the center of attention! For once someone finds me adequate!"

"Cut it off at once," Roger said. "You'll lose your position over this."

"No. I love him," Mycroft said, almost convinced of the fact himself.

"What have you done?" Roger said, eyes widening.

"He needs me and I need him," Mycroft replied stubbornly.

"Is he living here?" Roger demanded.

"No, I've found him a flat just out of town." The moment the words left his mouth he was horrified. He'd never been so bad at keeping a secret in his life.

"You're paying for his flat? Do you know how this will look?" Roger hissed.

Mycroft stuck his nose up and left the room.

_____

Twenty minutes later they were in the middle of a very awkward dinner when Sherlock walked in without knocking. He rounded the corner at his usual manic speed, talking away.

"Have you really taken to wearing red, Mycroft," he said, referring to Adi's scarf. "You know how it makes you-" he stopped dead when he saw Adi sat with them. "Who are you?"

"This is Adi, Sherlock," Roger said. "He's Mycroft's new intern."

"Spy," Sherlock said, then when Mycroft stared daggers at him, amended, "I mean, hi."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mouths of babes.


	12. Naughty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, that would be telling.

PRESENT TIME

Sherlock was still shaking an hour later as he sat on an uncomfortable chair waiting for John to finish doing what he did best. He would have liked to go take a shower and put on clean clothes but he was stuck there, covered in blood to his elbows, bracketed by two very uncomfortable privates-turned-guards. They seemed not to want to be there either, shooting him glances as he twitched in the seat and tried to rub the blood off on his jacket. 

He couldn't see John and he took that as the biggest affront to common decency. He wanted to know what was happening, wanted to see John work, wanted to be close. It was strange being that far away from the doctor after their cohabitation over the last week. He was so used to looking up and seeing John, whether reclining and reading or readying medicine, that not being able to see him had turned the simple discomfort he was feeling into a festering wound of agitation.

"I need to see him," he said standing and walking to the door again, just to be dragged back to his seat. At least they were working for their pay.

"Sir, you need to wait. Doctor Watson will be out when he's done," the first guard said.

"The man I helped stabilize, is he alive?" Sherlock asked.

"We can't speculate on the status of the injured," the second guard said, trying to press Sherlock back into the seat by his shoulder.

Sherlock finally gave up and slumped once again. "Can I at least take a shower?"

The guards exchanged looks and then said, in a stupidly simultaneous fashion, that they weren't allowed to make those choices. Sherlock scoffed at them and started to scratch at the scars on his arm. The door to the surgical bay swung open and Sherlock darted towards it, a foot catching around his ankle and sending him sprawling to the ground. He was cuffed in seconds and back in his chair, nose leaking blood down the back of his throat.

It was a nurse. The man looked harrowed. Sherlock spit blood on the boot of one of his guards and stared daggers at the nurse as he passed. He would have asked how the soldier he was interested in had fared but the nurse hadn't been there when Sherlock had assisted John and he didn't know the soldier's name. 

"Prick," the guard hissed.

Sherlock smiled up at him, blood tinting his teeth pink, even as everything felt drained from him.

_____

It was two more hours before John emerged from the surgical bay looking exhausted. His eyes widened as he saw Sherlock's state.

"Uncuff him!" He said, coming closer and running his thumbs under Sherlock's eyes.

"Sir, he-" the first guard tried.

His protest died in his throat at the look from John and Sherlock was quickly free of the cuffs and rubbing his wrists.

"I had to see you," Sherlock said weakly, frown the only forceful thing about him at that point. "I was worried."

John huffed a laugh and wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist, hoisting him up and moving him to walk towards the showers without a second thought or look to the guards. "I can take care of myself, silly man." 

"Did he make it?" Sherlock asked, knowing John would understand.

"He did," John said, smiling at Sherlock fondly, "thanks to you."

"I didn't do anything," Sherlock said as they entered the showers.

"You assisted. You were the perfect nurse," John said, affection nearly choking him. "Now get your kit off. I'll grab you some soap and clothes."

"You're leaving me here alone," Sherlock said, more of an observation than anything.

"Don't get in any fights," John said, soft teasing smile playing across his lips.

Sherlock swallowed and nodded.

_____

John was back in no time with everything they'd both need for their shower. He took the stall next to Sherlock and passed over his own soap and shampoo.

"I kind of like it now," Sherlock said, lathering up his hair.

"Like what?" John asked soaping his body up.

"The not-strawberry. Perhaps I'll have to buy some," Sherlock replied, eyes flitting shut as he felt along the swollen bridge of his nose. "That way I'll have it when you come by."

John stilled completely, feeling his heart beat slightly out of sequence. "When I come by?" He asked.

"My flat in London. That's where I'll settle after all this and you love London. When you're on leave and in some horrid hotel you can shower at mine," Sherlock said, rinsing his hair. 

"You'd want me to shower in your flat?" John asked, trying to control his breathing.

"You shouldn't stay in a hotel. Just stay with me. I've my eye on a flat that has two bedrooms," Sherlock said.

"You want to see me after all this?" John asked, honestly surprised that Sherlock had thought that far ahead.

"Obviously," Sherlock said, turning the shower off and walking across the room to where John had left the pile of clothes, running the towel through his hair.

John nearly choked at the unimpeded view it afforded, Sherlock's slight waist and plump buttocks leading to powerful thighs. He turned around, facing the spray, and closed his eyes. "Why don't...why don't you head back and I'll, um, I'll catch up. I'll get us some food." He said nervously, feeling his cock grow between his legs.

"Is everything alright?" Sherlock asked, finally dressed.

"Mmm. Just need a bit more time. Stressful morning and all," John said weakly.

Sherlock looked over at the stall for a long while, the only thing visible being the back of John's head, and then left.

John grunted at the first touch of his calloused fingers to his cock and slumped against the shower wall.

_____

TWO YEARS AND TWO MONTHS PRIOR

It only took a week of digging to find that Sherlock was right. Now, let's be honest, a week of sifting through hidden databases and blacked out files was a pretty big deal in the security world and if Roger hadn't been so incredibly good at his job he might have never found the death certificate. 

What happened in the end was that Roger got on a plane and found the home of a retired ME in a small town in Germany who could attest to the fact that the Prime Minister's nephew had died ten years prior. He also failed to identify the man who was currently posing as Adi's father but that was due to the fact that the man's face was so disfigured that no one would fair well in facial identification. 

This would have led him to question Adi's supposed father if he'd been in better shape but he didn't even know if the man was consciously a part of the plot as he'd entered England in a coma and remained that was to that day. It was possible that the German government or whoever was plotting against the British had just picked a comatose man with no relatives to play the part and then caused the damage to his face themselves. And, of course, altered DNA reports.

He got back on a plane and once home set up a long overdue appointment with the Prime Minister.

_____

"Roger," the PM said as he walked into the man's club.

"Gerald," Roger said, smile dazzling as he took a seat across from his old acquaintance. "It's been too long."

"I was happy to hear you'd made an appointment. What can I help you with?" The PM asked.

"I heard your brother isn't doing well and I just wanted to give you my apologies. I heard his son is assisting Mycroft," Roger said, sipping the tea that was placed in front of him and trying not to give anything away.

"Yes, sad about my brother. He'd my half brother, you see, so we weren't very close. He lived in Germany my whole life but when I found out about the accident and that his son was on his own I had to intervene. Adi's a good young man. We were sad to have him move out a while back," the PM said.

This went against everything Roger had been told about Adi's situation. The young man had told Mycroft that his home life with the PM left much to be desired. That was he whole reason for him moving out. It seemed that the bad blood had been wholly fabricated.

"He fit in well, then?" Roger asked.

"Yes, like having a second son. We miss him terribly," the PM replied with heartfelt honesty.

_____

Mycroft was uncomfortable with the idea at first, but Adi seemed to think it was extremely arousing and what Adi found arousing he would go along with. It wasn't the highest form of consent but he pushed any second thoughts aside and set up the camera.

Adi locked the door and stripped quickly, standing behind Mycroft's desk and bending over it. Dear lord, did he make for a sight. Mycroft pressed record and moved into frame.

"Please sir," Adi said, eyes on the red light blinking on the camera. "I've been very naughty."


	13. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sherlock's last day on base and we get to find out what happened to Adi and Roger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to start by addressing some concerns that came up in the comments of the last chapter. A reader, VanillaLatte, started out by questioning my portrayal of Mycroft. It was civil and she brought up a good point, but a point I disagree with. When I explained that I don't see Mycroft as a perfect individual that doesn't ever fuck up and pointed out various situations in the tv show that I see as fuck ups she got disgruntled. She was snide but I let it go. I tried to understand where she was coming from and it became obvious that she disagreed wholeheartedly, which isn't criminal, with where I was taking the story. I let her know that she could read something else because she obviously didn't want to read this story and she accused me of getting mad because she pointed out my flaws.
> 
> She simply disagreed with me. That's okay. Being a jerk about it when I give you an out gets your comments deleted. We are here to have a good time and if you don't like the story you can go read something else, but anything besides constructive criticism is pointless.
> 
> I couldn't figure out what was making me so uncomfortable with her saying that Mycroft would never fall for this sort of 'kiddie move' and then it hit me.
> 
> Mycroft thought that Adi was legit. He'd been told so by the PM and Adi had passed the vetting process with flying colors. Mycroft had no reason to see dating Adi as anything other than a bad idea because of who Adi was related to.
> 
> We know Adi is a spy so it's easy for us to say 'what the hell' and it's legitimate but let's not assume Mycroft isn't human because assuming that makes other people who fall for this sort of thing look immensely stupid. This is what people like Adi succeed at and no one is immune to a true psychopath.
> 
> What the comments about him being brain dead were saying was that he should have seen it coming. I disagree with this sort of viewing, not because I think he should have dated Adi but because I think it puts a ridiculous amount of blame on Mycroft.
> 
> Blaming Mycroft for what I wrote as an abusive relationship is startlingly close to what women face when they're in an abusive relationships. No matter how bad an idea it was to date Adi it was Adi's fault that everything bad happened, not Mycroft's. And Mycroft wasn't M in this story, he was in his mid thirties and miserable and not in control of all the spies the government had. He was still finding his place. He was not the Mycroft we know from the show, not yet.
> 
> The point that he would be too smart, as a veteran of the secret service, to fall for this sort of honey pot (honey pots exist because they work) doesn't take into account that people fuck up. People of power fuck up. People everywhere end up doing things that end up biting them in the ass and although I was absolutely in the 'what the fuck, Mycroft?!?' camp I also have compassion for someone who did something that felt good at a weak moment in their lives and regretted it immensely.
> 
> As for the idea that there couldn't possibly be a spy from Germany that was good enough at acting to fool a British spy...that's insulting. 
> 
> Let's put the blame on the people that let Adi into the country to begin with and the group that sent him, not the person who was broken enough to get taken in. Let's not pretend people are perfect.

PRESENT TIME

John woke up an hour before Sherlock the day Sherlock was meant to leave. He picked up his book and read the last chapter, glancing up every now and again to check on the sleeping man. His stomach was tight and he found himself unable to focus on the story, thinking over and over again how foolish he was to be so wrapped up in someone he probably wouldn't ever see again.

Of course, Sherlock had said he could stay with him on leave but that was six months away and surely by then his memory would have waned, becoming nothing more than a difficult time in Sherlock's life. By then he'd be a memory, and one Sherlock would be desperate to forget. He wouldn't blame him but he knew that Sherlock would never be just a memory to him.

"You've read that sentence three times," Sherlock said, stretching and sitting up.

"Oh, well," John replied as he closed the book and set it on his desk.

Sherlock stood and went to the basin to brush his teeth. He stood in his pants and nothing else and John thought about how easy it would be to simply slide up behind him and wrap his arms around his waist, how wonderful it would be to breathe against his skin. It was a traitorous thought and one that he'd been trying to push away for the last few days.

"Shall we get breakfast?" Sherlock asked, not at all hungry but knowing at that point that John would be. Funny that he thought of John's needs. Funny.

"Yes, I'll just," John said, sidling up next to Sherlock and grabbing his toothbrush.

They were close, the basin only meant to wash hands or flush out eyes, and John could feel the warmth seeping into his jumper from Sherlock's skin. He brushed, rinsed,and spit, watching as Sherlock went to slip into a pair of faded scrubs, then pulled a jacket over what he was wearing and followed him out of the room. The door was no longer locked as Sherlock wasn't really considered a risk at that point.

On their way to the mess hall John thought about how easy it would be for Sherlock to relapse when he went home if he didn't get the kind of therapy he needed. Detoxing was for the body, the brain would still play tricks on you long after. He knew he should say something but with what he'd learned about Sherlock, mostly that he pushed everything down inside him instead of dealing with it, he knew it wouldn't be a welcome suggestion so he thought he'd wait until the last minute.

They stood in line together and filled up their trays then went to the far end of the room for some privacy. Sherlock pushed his rehydrated eggs around the plate as John started on his ham.

"When do I catch my flight?" Sherlock asked, not looking forward to leaving and knowing exactly why. Attachment.

"Fourteen hundred hours," John replied, stomach knotting again.

"Will you...will you be the one taking me?" Sherlock asked, stabbing a piece of sausage with his fork and then scraping it off again.

"I'll ask. Don't know if they'll need me back in the bay," John said. "Eat your breakfast, Sherlock."

"Who will bully me into eating now?" Sherlock said under his breath, his voice almost cracking, before sniffing and looking away.

"You'll be fine on your own," John said just as quietly. "Are you really going to quit?"

"I sent a message to my brother last night. He's readied the papers," Sherlock said with a sure nod.

"So you'll be staying in London, then?"

"And you'll be coming to visit on leave," Sherlock replied, taking a bite of his toast and speaking before swallowing. "Obviously."

"Leave is a long way off," John said, taking a sip of his coffee and looking forlorn.

"So you'll have something to look forward to."

"Are you really sure-" John began.

"You're making this more complicated than it really is, John," Sherlock interrupted, slamming his fork down and standing. "I'm going to take a shower."

John watched him go and felt horrible for the doubt that had been evident in his own voice. 

_____

Many hours later John and Sherlock loaded into a tan Jeep and rambled towards town. The sun was blazing and Sherlock's shirtsleeves were rolled up the the elbows, several fading track marks showing at the juncture of forearm and bicep. He didn't seem bothered by that at all and John wondered if it was simple lack of concern or that they'd grown so close during the long week.

"You're thinking too loudly," Sherlock said. "Out with it. What's got you wound so tight?"

"Nothing in particular," John replied, eyes back on the road.

Sherlock let the lie slide as he'd seen John looking at the track marks and would rather not talk about them. His instinct was to cover them by rolling his sleeves down but he fought it and stubbornly gripped his own thighs instead. He looked out the window and they slipped back into the first uncomfortable silence of their short time together.

When they finally made it to the airport they sat in the Jeep in the parking lot for a long time before Sherlock spoke, which was good because John wouldn't say it.

"I'm going to miss your company."

John turned, rather shocked, and furrowed his brow.

"Did you really doubt that?" Sherlock asked. "You're the only fairly interesting person I know."

"Fairly interesting?" John asked, lips quirking.

Sherlock reached over impulsively and took John's hand from the steering wheel, holding it in both of his and looking down as if to read his palm.

"It's not easy for me to make...friends. I'm not very fun to be around. You're the closest thing I have," Sherlock admitted, thumbs stroking John's hand where it was softest, in the middle of his palm.

John swallowed and watched it happen, feeling all the built up emotion from the week as a hand around his throat.

"Don't relapse," he said softly. "Because I have leave in six months and I don't have anywhere to stay and if you relapse and you aren't there then I'll-"

Sherlock swallowed hard and lifted John's hand to his lips, pressing it there in an awkward kiss, and climbed from the Jeep. John was so shocked that he simply watched him walk away, mouth agape and palm slightly warm.

_____

TWO YEARS PRIOR

Roger was standing in front of the fireplace at Adi's, burning all the evidence of his and Mycroft's affair that had been hidden under the floor boards in the small kitchen, when Adi came home. That was the plan, after all, to get Adi into a room and talking about his betrayal.

"Roger," Adi said, going from surprised to calm at frightening speed.

"Adi," Roger replied, poking the fire and not looking over his shoulder.

He heard Adi go to the kitchen and pull out two glasses and turned to watch him pour a few fingers of whiskey in each and sit at the cramped table. He walked over and pulled a different glass from the cupboard and poured himself a drink, not touching the one sitting next to Adi's.

"You're acting rather paranoid," Adi said, leaning back in his chair and suddenly looking much older than nineteen.

"With due cause, don't you think?" Roger asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Adi said with a small smile. "And I don't know why you're in my flat, although I'll commend you for warming it up for me. It's a rather chilly day. Should I ask what you used as kindling?"

"I suggest you don't ask questions you know the answers to," Roger replied, taking a sip of whiskey after Adi did.

Adi moved his foot to the right and pressed it down, a creak coming from the floorboard that had been recently removed. "You don't know what was on those drives," he said.

Roger nodded to the sitting room where a laptop sat just out of view of the front door and Adi's jaw clenched.

"What do we do now?" Adi asked.

"Who do you work for?" Roger said quickly.

The smile on Adi's lips would have sent chills down a lesser man's spine. Instead Roger smiled back.

"Your brother, of course," Adi replied.

Roger set down his glass and sighed, standing just as Adi rose and came around the table. The fight was quick and brutal but in the end Adi was laying on the ground with a broken neck. Roger brushed off his suit and rolled the body into a rug from the sitting room, taking it into the night and stuffing it in the boot of his car. He didn't remove any fingerprints as he knew what his next move was.

_____

Mycroft was sitting at his desk when Roger arrived. He raised an eyebrow as his brother sat across from him.

"I have something to tell you," Roger said.

_____

A week later Mycroft sat at work filling out paperwork on his own brother's death sentence. Roger had told him there was evidence on his laptop but halfway through his confession there was a huge explosion and they ran from the house to find Roger's car on fire in the street. Adi's entire apartment building went up in flames an hour later. Only two of the twenty residents made it out alive. The ME in Germany was killed the next day, the same day Adi's supposed father somehow disappeared from the hospital.

Mycroft knew that Roger wouldn't lie about something like this and he felt the destruction of all evidence pointing to it would be enough to convince the higher ups to let Roger go. He still felt he had to pass along the confession though, and that act had cost his brother his life.

He signed his name and brought the papers to his assistant. It would all be put into motion that night. He would never see his brother alive again.


	14. Just Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our final chapter. I hope all your questions are answered and you're left feeling some relief.

TWO YEARS PRIOR

"I killed Adi," Roger said, leaning against the wall and holding the ice pack Mycroft had just given him to his neck. "But I can prove why."

There was a tremendous explosion outside and he and Mycroft ran through the house and out into the street as car alarms went off and neighbors shouted. His car was on fire, three of the doors blown right off and the hood pointing to the sky. Roger reached out his hand and laid it on his brother's shoulder.

"Mycroft," he said. "I'm sorry."

_____

"You said you could explain it," Mycroft said through the cell door, growing panicked as he begged for the seventh bloody day in a row, "just tell me what happened!"

"There's nothing to tell," Roger said, eyes sad and sunken in from lack of sleep. "I told you where to look but you didn't find anything."

"Lack of evidence is evidence," Mycroft hissed. "What were doing? How did Adi get involved? Why was his body in the boot of your car?"

Roger had planned out everything but the next move in his plan was still painful and very hard to put into gear. He'd had four days to get up the nerve and still he was sick over it.

"He didn't do anything," Roger lied. "And I can't explain my actions."

Mycroft's face fell and he looked as if he was going to be sick. It hurt to see Mycroft like that but it would have hurt worse for him to know the truth. They had looked into everyone that had to do with Adi's route into the country after they found his scorched body in Roger's car. It was all that could be done. If they couldn't find anything he would end up dead, his blood on the PM's hands for sure. It was either tell Mycroft the truth and watch him break for nothing or keep he truth to himself and play the villain.

Mycroft stood and turned to leave, feeling numb and cold.

"Don't come back!" Roger said, voice cracking.

Mycroft stilled, hands at his sides clutching at the air, and then left.

Roger slumped against the wall and closed his eyes, his last attempt to keep his younger brother safe being the one that ended his life. He would be put to death, he knew that, and without a trial. MI6 agents don't go on trial. People who kill the family of the PM don't live to tell the tale. He hoped that someday Mycroft could forgive him.

_____

PRESENT TIME

Sherlock and John had been corresponding almost once a week for the past six months. John wasn't sure why but he'd packed every letter with him for his flight back to London. Sherlock had given him instructions to come to 221b when he landed so he found a cabbie and made his way across town.

His stomach was in knots. They hadn't spoken about the kiss, it not seeming like the sort of thing you should address in a letter, and he wondered desperately if Sherlock would ever kiss him again. He wanted Sherlock to. He wanted it badly.

The cabbie pulled up outside a small cafe and John gave him a few notes and got his duffle from the boot. There were lights on in the building next door and John could hear violin music coming from the upstairs window. John looked up but couldn't see anything so he went and knocked on the front door.

"John!" A sweet older woman chirped as she opened the door. "So good to finally meet you."

"You must be Mrs Hudson," John said, taking her hand.

"Don't you worry over me," she replied in hushed tones. "Your man is in quite the strop. He thought you'd be here hours ago. Head on up, then."

John wanted to tell her that Sherlock wasn't his man but she was pushing him along and closing the front door so he followed the stairs and opened the door at the top of them slowly. Sherlock was standing with his back to the room pulling the bow across his violin and mincing the hell out of some concerto. When John closed the door he stopped and spun, eyes wide.

"The flight was delayed," John tried to explain. "There was no way to get word to you."

Sherlock set the violin and bow on the chair next to him and crossed the room in several long strides, dressing gown fluttering at his sides. He reached John and placed a hand on his shoulder, looking him up and down carefully without a word. 

John was about to ask if everything was okay when Sherlock dropped his hand and smiled nervously at John. John let his duffle fall to the ground and gripped Sherlock's hands. He waited a beat and then raised them to his lips, kissing them gently before letting them go.

Sherlock surged forward and started to kiss him, surprising them both. When he finally pulled back he looked almost frightened by his own actions.

"John," he panted. "I didn't mean to-"

John pulled him back in, hand in Sherlock's curls, and kissed him once more before letting him go. Sherlock's eyes were closed when they drew apart and John chuckled softly.

"Now that that's out of the way," he said, licking his lips, "I could really use a cuppa."

Sherlock opened his eyes and grinned, cheeks colouring, before going to the kitchen to start the kettle. "H-how was your flight?" He asked as he pulled down tea and two mugs.

"Long. I slept most of the way but every time we hit turbulence I woke up so the sleep was shite," John said, sitting in the seat opposite Sherlock's violin.

"Are you tired? Do you need to kip for a while?" Sherlock asked, fidgeting with the mugs. "I can try to keep it down."

"Not tired yet. Don't think I could sleep even if I was," John said, stretching his arms. "Too excited to be home."

The kettle started to whine and Sherlock poured the water into their mugs and brought them into the sitting room before going back for milk and sugar. He remembered exactly how John took his and put the right amount of milk in before handing it over.

"Cheers," John said, setting it to the side of his chair and watching Sherlock take his violin and place it carefully back in its case. 

There were footsteps on the stairs and John turned just in time to see a disheveled man burst through the door and approach Sherlock. 

"I need your help," the man said, voice tight.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock said, "this is my companion Dr John Watson, Captian, Northumberland fusiliers."

The man looked confused for a moment before turning and holding his hand out to shake John's. John stood and shook it, happy to finally meet the detective he'd been told about in so many letters.

"Good to meet you," John said.

"You as well, I'm sure," Lestrade said, eyebrows knit, before turning back to Sherlock. "The dead body has disappeared from the crime scene."

Sherlock looked over Lestrade's shoulder and John nodded quickly. He wanted to go on a case with Sherlock more than anything in the world. Hearing about them in letters just wasn't enough.

"We'll come," Sherlock said, nodding towards John and slipping off his dressing gown in favor of his greatcoat. "But not in your car. We'll be just behind. Text me the address."

"We?" Lestrade asked, looking John over with concern. Who, after all, would be a companion of Sherlock Holmes?

"Package deal, I'm afraid," Sherlock said with a fake smile. "Come along, John."

John went to hold the door open as Sherlock jogged down the stairs and Lestrade lagged behind. The man gave him another once over as he entered the stairwell and John closed the door behind them.

"I can't let just anyone onto a crime scene, Sherlock," Lestrade said as he made it to the front door.

"Then thank the heavens that John is not only a medical doctor but also a war hero and Captain in Her Majesty's Armed Forces. How many men have you saved, John?" Sherlock said as he hailed a cab.

"Fine, fine," Lestrade said, shaking his head, and then under his breath, "bring your boyfriend along."

_____

It was nearly ten hours, and three suspects caught, later that John and Sherlock were finally dismissed from the crime scene. They were giggling together as they ducked under the caution tape and came across a tall man in a bespoke suit.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, squaring off.

"I should ask the same of your doctor friend," the man replied.

"Sorry, who are you?" John asked, positioning himself between the two men in an unconscious move to protect Sherlock.

"Mycroft Holmes," the man said, holding out his hand. "Good to see you back on British soil, Captian."

John pulled his left arm back and his fist collided with Mycroft's face. Mycroft was nearly knocked off the ground and Sherlock's eyes followed his umbrella as it fell.

"That's for making us sedate him when he arrived at the base instead of talking to him yourself," John said, massaging his hand. "Coward."

Mycroft held a hand to his face and watched as John dragged Sherlock away. He was still looking at them when someone at his left held out a handkerchief. He turned to see a familiar face. Familiar but not recently so. The man smiled nervously at him.

"You never said you were a police officer," Mycroft said, taking the handkerchief and dabbing it to his lip, thinking about the night in the alley three years prior.

"You never said you were a...whatever you are," Lestrade said back, cocking his head to the side. "Are you still opposed to getting another drink together?"

Mycroft swallowed and looked back to where Sherlock and John could be seen getting into a cab. It would be nice to have someone to spend time with outside of work. He was rather...lonely.

"Perhaps not as against it as I used to be," Mycroft admitted.

"Good," Lestrade said, "cause I know a place just down the street."

"Aren't you on the job?" Mycroft asked.

"They can finish up without me. Benefit of being the top of the food chain," Lestrade said with a wink.

And Mycroft, well, he was already remembering just how persuasive this man could be.

_____

"Do I have permission?" John said, reaching for Sherlock's hand as they slipped into the flat and made their way into the sitting room.

"Yes, John," Sherlock whispered, the flush coming back in full force.

John sat on the sofa and pulled Sherlock into his lap, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and kissing him again. He brushed his tongue against Sherlock's in soft swipes this time, soothing the man and slowing the burn. He wanted to enjoy this, wanted to explore.

Sherlock moaned and rolled his hips and then moved to straddle John, arms wrapping around his shoulders as he pressed more intently into his lap. He felt John growing hard and slipped his greatcoat off as he ground down into him.

"Bloody hell," John gasped, head lolling back.

Sherlock kissed around his neck as John gripped his hips and thrust up against him. It was almost enough to get off on, the feeling of their clothed pricks rubbing together.

"John," Sherlock murmured against John's shoulder. "Please tell me I can suck you off now."

"Oh, Christ," John grunted, fingers scrabbling for purchase as the sentence made his cock twitch. "I have condoms in my-"

Sherlock was already pulling one out of his trouser pocket and passing it over before sliding to the floor between John's knees and starting on his zip. John let Sherlock pull his trousers and pants down to his knees as he toed off his shoes and kicked them aside. Sherlock growled and pulled them the rest of the way off before running his hands up the insides of John's thighs.

"Put the condom on," Sherlock pressed, grinning as John tore the packet that he'd forgot about open and rolled the condom down his aching prick.

John barely had time to stroke himself once before Sherlock was diving forward and sucking at the head of his prick. 

"Oh," John sighed closing his eyes and running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, noting it was still damp from the fog.

Sherlock hummed and mouthed wetly at the head before slipping more into his mouth and pulling off with a pop. John whimpered and wriggled and Sherlock took him back into his mouth with a moan, head bobbing now as he sucked hard and rubbed the underneath of John's cock with his tongue.

"Perfect, Jesus, that's amazing," John sputtered, doing everything he could to not thrust into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock pulled off and grinned at him. "I did say," he reminded.

John huffed a great laugh and then nearly shouted as Sherlock pushed down and again and took him all the way to the back of his mouth, the muscles of his throat twitching against the head. 'No gag reflex,' he thought as Sherlock pushed and his nose was suddenly nuzzling John's pubic hair.

It was almost too much and John tried to breathe through his nose to tamp down on his arousal but Sherlock wasn't having any of that and started bobbing his head again as he rutted against John's leg.

"Gorgeous, bloody hell, oh, God, I'm going to come," John rambled as Sherlock sucked and bobbed with enthusiasm.

And he did just that seconds later as he felt Sherlock's hips move erratically and the man moaned around his prick as he came. When Sherlock finally pulled off his smile was hazy.

It took them a few minutes to get up but they were in the shower in quick enough that Sherlock's cock wasn't glued to his pants by his drying come. For that Sherlock was immensely grateful. He let John maneuver him under the warm spray and only opened his eyes when John started to laugh.

"You said this stuff didn't smell any good," John said, holding up the same shampoo that he'd been given in his care package in Afghanistan.

"I said it didn't smell of strawberries," Sherlock corrected. "And it doesn't. It smells of you."

John smiled and poured some into his hand. "This is serious now, isn't it?" He asked, running it into Sherlock's hair. "Between you and me."

"I believe it is," Sherlock said, closing his eyes. 

"Good," John murmured. "Good."

_____

 

SIX YEARS LATER

"We're going to be late!" Sherlock said, tying and then re-tying his bow tie.

"So what if we're late," John said putting on his beret. "Not like they can start without us."

"It's bad form to show up late for our own wedding, John," Sherlock huffed, hands balled at his sides and ears pink.

John moved in close and kissed Sherlock's cheek before fixing his bow tie for him and smiling at his soon-to-be husband. "Don't worry, love. They'll just figure we're shagging."

"You're a bad man, John Watson," Sherlock said, smiling with all the affection he had for him.

"And I'm all yours," John replied, squeezing his hand and walking with him to the church door, the sound of the crowd on the other side almost deafening. "You ready?"

"Since the day I was born," Sherlock replied, tears in his eyes.

John opened the door and the crowd tittered approval.

_____

"We can't be late," Mycroft said as he straightened his tie in the mirror, pushing down tears.

"Just take a few more deep breaths," Greg said from behind him, hand on the small of his back.

"This is ridiculous. I should be happy," Mycroft spit, glowering at himself in the mirror.

"I know you wish Roger was here," Greg said. "It's not your fault he isn't."

A tear ran down Mycroft cheek and he let his head fall forward.

"It's not your fault. Whatever he chose to do, it's not your fault," Greg said. "Say it to me."

"It's not my fault," Mycroft said weakly, eyes on the floor.

"You did what you had to do for your country," Greg said. "And now you've got to go out there and be there for Sherlock. You've still got him."

"I've still got him," Mycroft said.

Greg went to the small loo off their hotel room and got a flannel wet with cold water and brought it back to dab away Mycroft's tears. "You can do this."

"I can do this," Mycroft said, looking up and finding strength in Greg's certainty.

They walked out the door together and down the stairs and found their seats near the front just in time to see Sherlock and John walk into the room. 

Mycroft breathed deeply, amazed that his baby brother had turned out just fine, and Greg gripped his hand, reminding him that he had as well. At least, he thought, he was on his way.


End file.
